


Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Slytherin Edition)

by AliceFour46



Series: Harry Potter (Slytherin Edition) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceFour46/pseuds/AliceFour46
Summary: There's a terrible plot at Hogwarts... And Harry is warned that his life is in danger if he goes back to Hogwarts, school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.Attacks on muggle-borns go rampant, and the Chamber of Secrets is opened once again.Everyone suspects Harry; after all he's in Slytherin, and holds powers that only a true heir of Slytherin would possess.Would he be able to clear his name? Or will he follow the darkness and join the side of evil, like everyone expects.
Series: Harry Potter (Slytherin Edition) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566304
Kudos: 16





	1. Dobby’s Warning

**Author's Note:**

> Read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Slytherin Edition) first, in my series, before reading this story.   
> Some new characters have been added or swapped with other minor characters for plot convenience, and to make things a little more interesting.  
> Some scenes have been reused from the books, since they would remain the same even if Harry was part of Slytherin house, and some removed and summarised.  
> Harry being sorted into Slytherin would change several plot points and character arcs, so please keep that in mind when reading this fan-novel. Thank you.

Harry had a good time taunting Dudley, his fat bully of a cousin, all summer. After coming back from his first year at Hogwarts, a school of witchcraft and wizardry, the Dursleys had been afraid of him. They treated him like a timebomb that was about to go off at any moment. Dudley was more terrified of Harry than Harry ever was of him, and it made Harry feel like he was on top of the world. Now that he had the magical world and friends to compare Muggles and the Muggle world to, he was really starting to see Draco’s point. Why would anyone want to let these kinds of people intermix with magic folk, and probably turn their world into misery.

Draco Malfoy was Harry’s best friend at Hogwarts, alongside Michael Munroe. He really wished he could receive that letter Draco had promised him last term, inviting him to stay at his mansion for the rest of summer, or even something from Michael. He received absolutely nothing from them. 

He couldn’t be imagining his year at Hogwarts, no… His Muggle family was treating him like at any moment he might decide to turn them into frogs. But he wondered whether his friendship with them was even real. 

Maybe they’d just forgotten about him. 

* * *

For a good moment, Harry was actually surprised to hear Uncle Vernon say, “It’s a special day today!” 

It was Harry’s birthday. Did Uncle Vernon remember? 

No. His surprise was short-lived, as he remembered the dinner party his uncle wouldn’t shut up about for weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon's company made drills).

“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be...?” 

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

“I'll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” 

“They'll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously. 

“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. “And you?” 

“I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,” said Harry tonelessly. 

“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight fifteen-” 

“I'll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia. “And, Dudley, you'll say…” 

“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an invisible woman. 

“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia. 

“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry. 

“I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there,” said Harry dully.

“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?” 

“Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason... Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason…” 

“Perfect... Dudley?” 

“How about: “We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.”” 

This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn't see him laughing. 

“And you, boy?” 

Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged. “I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there…”

“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. 

And so Harry went up to his room, the one that used to belong to Dudley (he had two rooms, one for sleeping, one for keeping the mass amount of toys he owned). After getting his Hogwarts letters, they moved him upstairs trying to trick whomever wrote them into not finding him under his cupboard. The letter knew that he was in the upstairs bedroom, though, when it was sent again. They didn’t want to force Harry back under the stairs for the fear that he would turn them all into pumpkins or something. Uncle Vernon, instead, locked all of his books and magical school things in there, trying to keep it out of sight and out of mind. 

Harry was hopeful that at least for his birthday someone would send him something. Even if it was a mere sickle. Something… 

But nothing came, so he sat alone in his room, making no noise and pretending he wasn’t there. 

The dinner party sounded like it was going swimmingly, Harry thought. Vernon Dursley was talking loudly, and now and again he could hear laughs from the guests. 

But trust his luck to get a visitor at the perfectly wrong time. 

After sneaking off silently to the bathroom, making no more noise than a mouse would, and coming back to his room, he saw someone sitting on his bed. 

Harry managed not to shout out in fright. The tiny little creature had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. 

It slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm-and leg-holes. 

“Er... hello,” said Harry nervously. 

“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir... Such an honor it is…” 

“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage. 

He asked, “What are you?” 

“I’m just a mere house-elf, sir… My name is Dobby…” said the creature. 

“Oh… really?” said Harry. “Er... this isn't... a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom.” 

Aunt Petunia's high, false laugh sounded from the living room. 

The elf hung his head. 

“Not that I'm not pleased to meet you,” said Harry quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you're here?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir... it is difficult, sir... Dobby wonders where to begin…” 

“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed. To his horror, the elf burst into tears... very noisy tears. 

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never ... never ever…” 

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, “I didn't mean to offend you or anything-” 

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard... like… like an equal…” 

Harry, trying to say "Shh!" and look comforting at the same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. 

At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery adoration. 

“You can't have met many decent wizards,” said Harry, trying to cheer him up. Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” 

“Don't! what are you doing?” Harry hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed. Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage. 

“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir…” 

“Your family?” 

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir... Dobby is a house-elf... bound to serve one house and one family forever”

“Do they know you're here?” asked Harry curiously. 

Dobby shuddered. "Oh, no, sir, no... Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir…”

“That’s horrible…” said Harry, “Who could do something like this to you? This isn’t right.” 

Harry thought that Dobby might start wailing loudly again, but he just sniffled. “Harry Potter… You’re such a great wizard… such a good wizard… Never in my life have I met such a noble wizard…” 

Harry said, “Whatever you've heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I'm not even top of my year at Hogwarts. My friend, Draco scored much higher than me in my exams…” But he stopped quickly, because thinking about Draco was painful.

“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orblike eyes aglow. “Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…”

“It wasn’t just my triumph… My friends Michael and-” Harry paused. Thinking of Michael was painful, too. 

“Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later... Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.” 

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon's voice. 

“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I've got to go back... term starts on September first. It's all that's keeping me going. You don't know what it's like here. I don't belong here. I belong in your world... at Hogwarts.” 

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

“Why?” said Harry in surprise. 

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!” 

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who's plotting them?” 

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall. 

“All right!” cried Harry, grabbing the elf's arm to stop him. “You can't tell me. I understand. But why are you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck him. “Hang on... this hasn't got anything to do with You-Know-Who, has it?” 

Slowly, Dobby shook his head. "Not... not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir” 

But Dobby's eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a hint. 

Harry, however, was completely lost. “He hasn't got a brother, has he?” 

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever. 

“Well then, I can't think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there's Dumbledore, for one thing... you know who Dumbledore is, don't you?” 

Dobby bowed his head.

“Then nothing bad is going to happen…” 

“There are powers Dumbledore doesn't ... powers no decent wizard…” 

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry's desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with ear-splitting yelps. 

A sudden silence fell downstairs. 

Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!” 

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned. 

“What. the. devil. are. you. doing?” said Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry's. “You've just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke... One more sound and you'll wish you'd never been born, boy!” He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet. “See what it's like here?” he said. “See why I've got to go back to Hogwarts? It's the only place I've got… well, I think I've got friends.” 

“Friends who don't even write to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly. 

“I expect they've just been... wait a minute,” said Harry, frowning. “How do you know my friends haven't been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet, looking guilty. 

“Have you been stopping my letters?”

“D- Don’t be mad sir… He had to do it for Harry Potter’s sake, sir… Dobby has them here,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harry's reach, he pulled a wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. 

Harry could make out Michael’s neat writing on the top-most letter. The others had to be from him and Draco. There was also a messy looking one behind them. Must have been from Hagrid. 

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry. “Harry Potter mustn't be angry... Dobby hoped ... if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him... Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir…”

Harry wasn't listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of reach. “Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts!” 

“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends' letters!”

“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the elf sadly. 

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs. Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. 

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear. 

Aunt Petunia's masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets that was supposed to be their special surprise dessert, was floating up near the ceiling. 

On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby. 

“No,” croaked Harry. “Please... they'll kill me…”

“Harry Potter must say he's not going back to school.” 

“Dobby... please…”

“Say it, sir…” 

“I can't…” 

Dobby gave him a tragic look. “Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter's own good.” 

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished. 

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s pudding.

* * *

To say that he was punished would be an understatement. After this incident, Harry received a letter by an Owl, that flew straight through the window and dropped it onto Mrs. Mason’s head. The Masons left quickly, whispering to themselves and calling them freaks. 

The letter contained a warning, saying that Harry was guilty of performing underage magic, and that if he were to do it again he’d be expelled. 

Harry couldn’t deal with the unfairness of it all. It wasn’t him, it was Dobby. It was all Dobby’s fault. 

Vernon was pleased to hear that Harry was lying all summer. He couldn’t do anything to them, even if he wanted to. And this gave them an opportunity to punish Harry worse than he had been punished for years. 

They locked him up in his room. Uncle Vernon put bars on Harry’s window to stop him from escaping. “No more Hogwarts for you, boy…” he sniggered evilly. 

They only fed him soup once a day. Harry was starving, and so was Hedwig. And he couldn’t even use magic to let her out of her locked cage so she could stretch her wings. 

* * *

He dreamed one night that he was on show in a zoo, with a card reading “UNDERAGE WIZARD” attached to his cage. People goggled through the bars at him as he lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. 

He saw Dobby's face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, "Harry Potter is safe there, sir!" and vanished. 

Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him. He then reached out through the bars, and grabbed his shoulder, as Harry tried to break free from his grasp weakly. “S- Stop it… stop…” he mumbled, twisting and turning. 

“Harry, wake up!” 

“Please don’t-”

“Harry…” 

Harry opened his eyes. It was just a dream…

But what wasn’t a dream, was someone’s long hair on his chest and their hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He quickly grabbed his glasses, and looked up to see Michael’s worried face. 

“What did they do to you?” He whispered, “Harry… I know it’s a bit… much… us breaking in and stuff…” 

Harry looked behind his friend. A girl with the same red shade of hair as Michael’s, looked at him with piercing blue eyes. 

“I wrote you several letters, but you weren’t replying. I was worried… I asked my sister, Mari, to come see you. It took a while for her to agree. When we came we saw bars on your window, and knew straight away…” 

“H- how did you get in…” Harry muttered, sitting up weakly. 

“Mari used magic to get in. She’s 19 so she can use it without getting into trouble.” 

“We have to go,” Mari said. “We only brought one broomstick. Michael said you should already have yours.” 

“My broomstick…” Harry got out of bed as quickly and as quietly as he could, getting dressed and getting Hedwig. “Uncle Vernon locked all my Hogwarts stuff in the cupboard under the stairs…” 

They crept down the steps, Harry jumping at every squeak. Michael and Mari were both very quiet. But it was hard for Harry to be silent with an owl cage in his hands. 

Mari used Alohomora to open up the cupboard, and Harry quickly got all his stuff out. 

There was a sudden noise coming from upstairs. Harry froze. 

After a moment of complete silence, Harry, Michael and Mari got all of his stuff, and made their way outside. 

When the fresh night air hit Harry’s face, he thought he’d leap with joy at their success, but he just didn’t have the strength. 

“Hang on,” Harry muttered. “How are we supposed to get all my stuff up on a broomstick?” 

“Remember that net Charlie Weasley’s friends used to transport Norbert last year?” 

Harry nodded.

“We got something similar. The four corners connect to the back and the front of two brooms. Your luggage can be suspended mid air.” 

Harry nodded. Then, he asked, “isn’t riding a broomstick using magic?” 

“Yes, technically… but as long as you’re with me, you should be alright,” Mari said. 

“She works at the ministry,” Michael added. 

“And I’m over here breaking about fifty rules for my little brother,” she patted his head. 

Mari seemed quite strict and didn’t smile at all, but he could tell she cared about Michael. 

Harry was the only one now whose whole living family hated him. 

They let out Hedwig from her cage, finally. She stretched out her wings and flew about awkwardly, as if she’s almost forgotten how to fly over the last few weeks. 

They got their net ready next and placed everything inside, before clamping it shut. Harry got onto his broom, and Mari on hers with Michael behind her. 

Just then, they heard a scream. It was Aunt Petunia. 

“Come on, quick!” Harry panicked, as they kicked off the ground. 

They saw the Dursley’s faces peeking at them through bars of Harry’s window. Harry must’ve forgotten to close his room door behind him. 

He found this rather amusing, though. It looked like they were looking at them behind bars of a prison. 


	2. Munroe Manor

Flying above Privet drive, and all across Surrey, Harry was looking down and around in amazement. It felt so nice to finally fly again, and the lights from below were quite pretty. 

They flew for quite some time, and Harry was starting to feel dizzy and faint. 

“Nearly there,” Michael called out, looking at Harry. “Mari, we need to take a break…” 

The three of them landed quietly in a small, empty field. Harry sat there, clutching his stomach. He was so hungry, he couldn’t think straight. 

“We didn’t bring any food,” Michael felt guilty. If he had known... 

Hedwig, who was flying behind them the whole way, was also exhausted. 

“Harry, swap with Michael. You can sit behind me on my broom.” 

Michael suddenly looked scared. “I… I don’t know how to fly properly…” 

“You’ll be fine,” Mari said, “you were practicing all summer.” 

“But…” 

“Your friend is obviously in no state for flying. Would you rather he fell off his broom?”

Michael shook his head. 

Harry stood up, looking around at the trees. “Maybe… there’s some nuts or berries… or mushrooms…” he began walking towards the woods. 

Michael stood up, following after him. He grabbed his arm, “lets go. I promise we’re not far off from home.” 

They mounted their brooms again, this time Michael taking Harry’s Nimbus 2000, and Mari and Harry getting on hers. 

Mari felt warm, Harry thought, as they flew across Haslemere. Dark red streaks of her hair would hit his face now-and-again, and she smelled of warm coffee. He couldn’t help but be reminded of his mother, of how he imagined she would be like. He imagined her taking him far from his Aunt and Uncle, far from the horrors of childhood... home… home… home... 

It was lucky they decided to tie Harry with a rope to Mari’s Nimbus 2000. 

When he passed out, his grip on her loosened and he fell, only to hang safely from the broom. 

They managed to find a soft landing and get Harry back up, this time tying him to Mari’s back, and flying off again. They managed to make it to the Munroe Manor. 

* * *

It was some time before Harry came about again. He was lying in a warm, soft bed, whiffs of delicious smelling breakfast reaching his nostrils. 

Opening his eyes, and finding his glasses nearby, he put them on and saw a big tray of breakfast on the drawer by his bed. He didn’t even pause to check if it was really for him, grabbing it and eating so fast that he had almost choked. 

Only after several pieces of toast and half a rich, creamy, delicious bowl of oatmeal, did he realize what he was eating. 

“Do you like?” came a small voice from the side of the room. When Harry saw who it belonged to, he almost spat out his food. 

Dobby? 

No. After fixating on the small ugly form on the floor, he realized it was another house elf, but it didn’t look quite like Dobby. It’s eyes were smaller and it was was wearing some sort of rag, but not a pillowcase. 

“Y- yes, thank you…” Harry finally said. “Are… you a house elf?” he suddenly asked. 

The small creature nodded. “My name’s Yucky.” 

“Yucky?” He raised an eyebrow. 

Yucky nodded. “It was the first word that came out of master Cedric’s mouth when he first saw me, he was three. Decided to name me that. But of course I’m super grateful to Lord Munroe for giving me a name...” he added quickly, looking around. 

“Oh,” Harry muttered. He felt kind of bad for him. He didn’t know Michael’s father was a Lord… 

Just then the door opened, and Michael walked in, Cheshire (his cat) in his arms. “Harry,” he smiled, “you’re awake.” 

Harry nodded. “Yes… but… what happened?” 

Michael told Harry about how he fell off his broom, and how they tied him to Mari and got back safely. 

Harry smiled, “Thank you so much… for saving me... I want to thank Mari too.” 

“Mari’s gone to work. She’s always busy at the Ministry,” Michael said.

“Thank you for the breakfast too,” he added. “It was delicious.” 

“If you want seconds, I’ll get Yucky to bring you some.” 

“No, it’s okay… Thank you…” he paused. He figured he should tell Michael about what happened with Dobby, and why he needed saving in the first place. 

Michael looked shocked. “Wow… so he was hiding my letters? That makes sense.” he sat at the end of Harry’s bed, as Harry sat up. “But why would someone’s house elf try to warn you? House elves can’t do anything to disobey their masters.” 

“I don’t know,” Harry sighed. “I felt bad for him though… he was treated so horribly, that I can’t even blame him. It’s just wrong…” 

“House elves are created for it, though. They don’t have any other purpose. If they don’t serve a master, their life is sort of meaningless.” 

Harry looked down, “even so, they shouldn’t be abused.” 

“I agree with you on that,” Michael nodded. “I wish my father agreed too.” 

Harry glanced over at Yucky. He only just now noticed small burns on his arms. 

“Can’t you do something about it?” Harry wondered. 

Michael shook his head. “His master is the only one who can free him, by presenting him with an item of clothing. There’s no other way. If I opened the door and told him to run, he just wouldn’t.” 

Harry understood. 

So Dobby was set up to do this. He must have been lying to Harry. 

“Who could possibly want you out of Hogwarts,” Michael began. “Professor Snape? Pansy Parkinson?” 

Harry shrugged. It was just another mystery. 

“Did Draco write to you by the way?” Harry asked Michael, as they headed down the hallway. 

The manor was rather dark and cold, but very beautiful. The architecture lay elegantly atop white marble floors. Floral stone carvings and beautiful paintings of ancestors covered the tall, spacious walls. 

“No, he didn’t,” Michael answered, a hint of sadness in his voice. “When you didn’t reply, I figured neither of you wanted to talk to me and forgot about me. But then I remembered your Muggle family, and that they might be hurting you again, and I was right.” 

“I hope Draco is okay, then… hopefully he doesn’t have to deal with what we do…”

Michael nodded. 

Harry noticed that most of the people in moving pictures that Michael pointed out to him had dark, jet-black hair. Only more recent portraits showed red haired individuals, gathered around massive tables or in front of the sea. It was fascinating to see his lineage. Harry kind of wished he could see his own. 

“That’s the Muggle my great great however many greats grandmother married,” she pointed. “Cedric begged father to take it down since it's disgraceful or something. But father likes the scenery too much to do so.” 

Yucky seemed to be following them wherever they went. One time Harry almost accidentally stepped on him. 

Only when he looked out of the windows did he realize that they were surrounded by beautiful fields and trees, and that the line of the sea could be faintly seen behind the green. 

The last picture that Michael pointed out to Harry was by far the most interesting one. 

Michael’s father stood there, holding a golden goblet in his sausage fingers. He was fat and had dark red hair that was smoothed back into a tiny ponytail. He stood next to the man that Harry recognised as Lucius Malfoy, Draco’s father. Both men looked much younger, and didn’t talk or even look at each other. 

“Father said that he went to school with Mr. Malfoy, and that they are one of the best wizarding families besides our own,” Michael explained, “but since you-know-who was destroyed, they stayed away from each other.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. 

Michael continued, “I’d prefer if you didn’t tell anyone… but…” he looked around, “both my father and Mr. Malfoy were you-know-who’s servants. When You-know-who vanished, they both pretended they were just under his spell and had no free will in any of this. Now father works for the Ministry of Magic and they avoid each other to avoid suspicion…” 

“Your and Draco’s fathers used to work for Voldemort?” Harry’s eyes widened. He had no idea.

Cedric Munroe, it turned out, was attending the local annual Quidditch championship with his friends Victoria Meyrose and Raphael Volkov. 

They came back to the manor, surprised to see Harry there. 

“Father is going to be very angry when he comes back from work! How could you do something like this!” Cedric dramatically waved his arms, “you’re such a troublemaker, you,” he looked at Michael, “have we not spoken about what you can’t and can do?” 

“Sorry… but his Uncle and Aunt were abusing him…”

“I don’t care,” Cedric sighed, as if he was dealing with a misbehaving child. “I told you not to annoy your friends with your silly letters, now you’re kidnapping and bringing them here for no reason? You’re a real stalker, you know that…” 

“No he isn’t,” Harry suddenly spoke up. “He and his sister saved my life. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be able to go to Hogwarts this year… and be the seeker for Slytherin too…” he added.

Cedric suddenly looked like he had a change of heart, “well isn’t Mari a gem… we need Potter this year, yes… I’ll make sure to thank her later” he strolled off upstairs. 

Victoria and Raphael followed their leader wherever it was that he was going. 

Harry couldn’t figure out what the look on Michael’s face meant. 

“Don’t listen to him, he just wants to make you feel guilty,” Harry said. 

“You don’t think I’m a stalker, right? I would never-” 

“Of course not!” Harry said, “you’re my best friend and I was thinking about you and Draco all summer. I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you… I guess I felt like I was the annoying one.” 

When Lord Munroe came back home, he was looking at Harry with a very sour expression. Somehow, he had gotten fatter since that last portrait he saw of him. 

Michael was stammering up all sorts of excuses, and begging him to let Harry stay. Only when Mari came home and asked did he finally agree.

“Thank you so much,” Harry muttered, terrified of making the wrong move. Though somehow he felt safer in the presence of Michael’s sister. 

During dinner, they all sat around the long, grand table in the middle of the gigantic dining room that looked like it could hold a ball for hundreds. Yucky ran from the kitchen, bringing floating platters to the table. 

Lord Munroe wouldn’t stop staring at Harry miserably. 

“Derek is an Auror, and Mari works at the department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Cedric explained. “I, personally, would rather own a theatre when I leave Hogwarts.” 

Cedric was the only one blabbering away, as everyone else sat in silence. 

The food was extremely good, though, and Harry was still starving. It would take a while for him to compensate for all the food he’s missed out on. But he didn’t take too much on his plate for the fear of looking greedy. 

There was so many types of foods too. Stews, salads, pasta, rice, garlic bread, chips and pies and a magical gravy pot that would serve sauce by itself. Harry noticed that there was no meat at all, and was shocked by the variety and the flavour. He brought his goblet with him that Draco’s parents sent him for Christmas last year. It turned the orange juice from the jug into pumpkin juice. 

The next day, three Hogwarts letters arrived in the post. One for Michael, one for Cedric and one for Harry. It was good to see that they still knew where to send his. 

The letter was similar to the one from last year, but had a completely different shopping list. 

Michael’s eyes widened, “Gilderoy Lockhart? Why do we need so many Gilderoy Lockhart books?” 

Cedric suddenly jumped up, “Gilderoy Lockhart did you say?” He snapped his fingers, “that legend… I already read all of his books, twice. We must have a professor that likes him. For a good reason too of course,” he laughed. “We could learn a lot from him, yes. I mean the way he caught that ghoul with a tea-strainer… A tea-strainer!” 

Michael sighed a little.

“Who’s Gilderoy Lockhart?” Harry asked. 

“He’s a famous wizard. And a hero of many different stories,” Michael said. 

“Not just stories, Michael! Reality! He’s saved countless lives from terrible beasts! In fact, Vicky and I are writing a play about him for our next performance.” 

Soon after they got their letters, they got their stuff ready to go to Diagon Alley. Mari was going to take them, and Harry was grateful that it was her and not Cedric taking the lead. 

Victoria and Raphael came promptly to join Cedric, and once they were all there and ready to go, they followed Mari out of the manor and down the stone pathway through freshly cut lawns. 

“How are we going to get there?” asked Harry, “are we going to fly again?” 

Michael shook his head. “Our family uses Portkeys. Father always hated using floo powder, it made him sneeze.” 

“Portkeys? Floo powder?” Harry didn’t know what these things were. They haven’t learned about magical transportation yet. 

“A Portkey teleports you to a designated place. Floo powder is used to travel between fireplaces. Though there’s a specific network for it.” 

Harry nodded. 

“Though I have to say, even though Muggle transport takes longer, it’s not as uncomfortable.” 

“Muggle transportation is stupid,” Cedric chimed in. “Imagine having to wait an hour to just get across a few cities. Whoever thought using a Muggle train to get to Hogwarts was an idiot.” 

They soon made it to a field near the seaside. Harry looked at it in awe; it was pretty deserted and clean, unlike many public beaches the Dursleys would drag Harry to, just to watch Dudley flap his fat arms in the shore, and probably almost drown after Harry accidentally made a giant wave eat him up like a pork pie. 

“After we’re done shopping, we can go to the beach,” Michael offered. 

Harry nodded. “Yes please… It would be nice.” 

This summer the Dursleys dropped Harry off at Mrs. Figgs again and went off to the beach without him. Not that he wanted to go to the trashy miserable place they’d usually travel to. 

“Everyone, come around, don’t be shy,” Cedric said dramatically. They all circled a Muggle tire. 

“Is this a Portkey?” Harry asked. 

Michael nodded. “Portkeys usually have to be something Muggles wouldn’t want to touch…” 

There was a family of slugs living inside the rugged old tire. Harry thought that even wizards probably wouldn’t want to touch it. 

“Ready?” Mari looked around the circle. 

“Of course,” Cedric grinned.

Michael nodded once.

And Harry had no clue what he was doing. 

The other five quickly grasped onto the Portkey, and Harry looked around, before doing the same. If he had tried to grab it half a second later, he would have been left behind. 

Harry felt that his feet was no longer on the ground. The six of them swirled around, as if in a tornado of colour. He felt Michael bumping into him several times. Somehow, he knew not to let go of the tire no matter what. It was indeed, very unpleasant. 

The moment that they arrived, Harry was on the ground, winded. The old tire landed somewhere near his head with a thud. 

Michael was on his hands and knees, his face white. 

Cedric, his two friends and Mari, on the other hand, landed on their feet like they’d just had a gentle stroll through the clouds. 

Harry thought he might throw up. 

“You’re such a baby,” Cedric dragged Michael up to his feet. “Look at that, your new robe is covered in dirt… We can excuse Harry; it’s his first time, but by now you should be able to land on your feet.” 

“Sorry,” Michael muttered quickly.

“Leave him be,” Mari said, before reaching a hand towards Harry. “Come on, up you get.” 

Harry looked up to her hand, and quickly took it. “Thank you,” he said. 

When he looked around, he realized they were in a large park. Harry recognised it. They were in London. 

“Don’t worry about the tire, Muggles won’t notice. I put a spell around it so that nobody could see it,” Mari said. Although they landed in an empty field, Harry realized that could be a bit of a problem if a bunch of kids saw it. 

Harry and Michael walked behind the others, reaching the path by the small canal. Muggles gave them funny looks, either because the two of them were covered in mud, or because the Munroes wore old fashioned, Victorian robes. Raphael had a very magical looking gown on and Victoria wore a corset dress. 

Cedric kept pointing out Muggle objects and calling them stupid. He’d particularly make fun of the red telephone box. “What exactly do Muggles do in there?” 

“They’re phones boxes. They use them to communicate,” Harry explained. 

“Just write a letter. Send an owl. I say… these funny creatures…” 

Soon enough they made it to the Leaky Cauldron. As soon as they walked in, Cedric said, “I’ll grab a drink…” 

Victoria grabbed him by the back of his robes. “You’re underage.” 

“I was going to grab an orange juice, Vicky… relax. You’re not my mother” 

Harry spotted Hagrid in the crowd. “Look,” he nudged Michael, and pointed. 

Hagrid must’ve noticed them, because he put down his cup and stood up. 

They approached the friendly giant with smiles on their faces. 

“Hullo,” Hagrid beamed. “Good ter see ye two, how’s yer summer bin?” 

Harry shrugged, “it’s getting much better, now, thank you. How about yours?” 

“It’s a’right. Had a nasty run-in with Draco’s dad. Seemed like he was in a foul mood, he did.” 

“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Draco hasn’t wrote us at all… I hope he’s alright.” 

“Seemed fine, was there with ‘im. Doin’ their shoppin’ me thinks.” 

Michael spotted Mari, who was headed to the door. 

“It was nice seeing you, Hagrid,” he said. “We’ll see you again at Hogwarts…” 

They quickly followed Mari; neither of them really knew how to get past the wall to Diagon Alley. 

Once she tapped on the bricks, and they got through, they were walking down the street that Harry visited last year once again. 

Harry couldn’t help but smile at the sight of witches and wizards and floating objects all around them. Shops filled with all sorts of things that you wouldn’t ever be able to find on the highstreets of Surrey. Cauldrons, floating candles, quills, even broomsticks. 

Harry caught sight of the Nimbus 2001. It was the newest model yet. 

“Thinking about getting one?” Michael asked. 

Harry shrugged, “I like my Numbus Two Thousand.” 

“Malfoy promised that his father would get everyone the newest model on the Slytherin team,” Cedric’s voice rang behind them. 

He finally caught up with them, holding a carton of orange juice, as Victoria and Raphael walked behind him. 

Harry felt sad, thinking of Draco again. Though at least Michael was still his friend. It wasn’t as bad as when he was in Privet Drive, thinking all his friends abandoned him. 

Their first trip was to Gringotts to get the money to do their school shopping with. The Munroes had way more money than Harry did, to his surprise, since he thought he had quite a lot. He just wasn’t used to being so rich, after living like he had with the Dursleys. 

Cedric pitied him once he saw his vault. “Ah, Potter,” he sighed, “So poor… Don’t know how you’re surviving…” 

Once they were done, Mari got out a big trolley to put all of their books and new magical instruments and ingredients in, so it would be easier to carry everything around. 

They started off with their potions ingredients, placing everything they needed into a crate. 

Mari was very organised, and made sure that everything was done by the book. 

They went to Madam Malkins to get their robes measured again for this year. Harry decided not to get new robes, since his old ones still fit him. 

They went to look at broomsticks, too. Though Cedric kept saying how generous the Malfoys were, and how he couldn’t wait to try out the Nimbus 2001. 

At one point, when they made their way through the street, it got rather crowded, and Harry was carried away, losing sight of the Munroes. 

“Come, Draco. This way,” he heard a familiar voice. It was Mr. Malfoy. 

Harry snapped around, seeing him and Draco walking into a dark alley. Mr. Malfoy looked around, as if to make sure that they weren’t being followed. 

Harry knew that this probably was a bad idea, but his feet moved on their own. He stopped behind the brick wall, peeking behind it to see them striding along. 

‘Bad idea’, Harry thought to himself once more, before following behind them noiselessly. 

He had never been down this alley before. There was a stark contrast between the happy, noisy main street of Diagon Alley, and the cold, dark, miserable looking path ahead. Shady looking wizards cut up in front of him, hurrying off into a building and whispering amongst themselves. Once they passed, Harry almost missed his sight of the Malfoys. 

He just barely saw Draco stepping into the largest shop that was there, named “Borgin and Burkes.” 


	3. Flourish and Blotts

Harry was grateful, that when he slowly opened the door, there was no bell above it to alert that someone came in. There were shelves filled with terrifying objects, different types of nasty looking potions, a glass case nearby that held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling.

Harry felt chills run down his spine. 

He heard the voice of Mr. Malfoy. “Touch nothing, Draco…” 

Harry ducked as he passed a slightly shorter shelf. Draco was starting to look around. 

Harry panicked, spotted a large black cabinet to his left, and shot inside it, pulling the doors closed. 

“I thought you were going to buy me a present…” Draco said. 

Harry peeked through the crack in the cabinet, to see what was going on. 

Draco was now reaching for a glass eye on a shelf. 

“I already bought you a racing broom.” 

“That was for my birthday... aren’t you going to get me something to take to Hogwarts?” Draco enquired, as Mr. Malfoy pointed his walking stick at him, “don’t touch, I said.” 

Draco looked back at the shelves, a scowl on his face. “Can you believe that they took Harry in to be the seeker instead of me? He never even rode a broom before coming to Hogwarts… and they bent all sorts of school rules to let him play.” 

“You already told me… twelve times,” Mr. Malfoy gave out a long sigh. “You’re playing keeper this year, well, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” Draco made his way around the shop, eyeing creepy objects and reaching his hand out to touch them. 

“How many times must I tell you, Draco…” 

Harry wasn’t sure what to think. Did he dislike him now? He couldn’t really tell if that was the case, or if Draco was just being… well… Draco. 

A stooping man had suddenly appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. "Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again," said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. "Delighted. And young Master Malfoy, too! Charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced..." 

"I'm not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling," said Mr. Malfoy.

"Selling?" The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin's face. 

"You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids," said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. "I have a few... ah... items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…” 

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list. 

"The Ministry wouldn't presume to trouble you, sir, surely?" 

Mr. Malfoy's lip curled. "I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act. No doubt that fleabitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it... And as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear..." 

"I understand, sir, of course," said Mr. Borgin. "Let me see..." 

"Can I have that?" interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.

"Ah, the Hand of Glory!" said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy's list and scurrying over to Draco. "Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir." 

"I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin," said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, "No offense, sir, no offense meant-" 

"Though if his grades don't pick up," said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, "that may indeed be all he is fit for-" 

"I’m second in Slytherin," retorted Draco. "The only reason I’m not first because the teachers all love Parkinson so much. Not to mention that Granger girl ending up on top of the whole year..." 

"I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam," snapped Mr. Malfoy. 

Draco looked both abashed and angry. 

"It's the same all over," said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. "Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere-" 

"Not with me," said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.

Harry kept liking Mr. Malfoy less and less the more he spoke. He understood now, why Draco acted the way he did. 

"No, sir, nor with me, sir," said Mr. Borgin quickly, with a deep bow. 

"In that case, perhaps we can return to my list," said Mr. Malfoy shortly. "I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today." 

They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman's rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, “Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed - Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.”

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. The one Harry was in. He walked forward... he stretched out his hand for the handle... 

"Done," said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. "Come, Draco-" 

Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away. 

"Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I'll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods." The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner. "Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven't sold me half of what's hidden in your manor…” Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. 

Harry waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, remembering that he forgot to memorize his way out of here. 

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn't help; he never even heard of this place before.

"Not lost are you, my dear?" said a voice in his ear, making him jump. 

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry backed away. "I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I'm just -"

"HARRY! What d'yeh think yer doin' down there?" 

Harry's heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard. 

"Hagrid!" Harry sighed. "I was lost-" he couldn’t think of a good enough excuse as to why he was here, though.

Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight.

“What ye think ye were doin’ Harry? Hangin’ round Knockturn Alley?” 

“I- I was just-” Harry began.

“Ain’t a place fer children, Harry… Shouldn’t be gettin’ lost ‘ere in the first place! Dodgy place, this is!” 

“Sorry,” Harry panted. “But what were you doing here then?”

"I was lookin' fer a Flesh-Eatin' Slug Repellent," growled Hagrid. "They're ruinin' the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?" 

"I'm staying with the Munroes but we got separated," Harry explained. "I've got to go and find them..." 

They set off together down the street. 

"How come yeh never wrote back ter me?" said Hagrid as Harry jogged alongside him (he had to take three steps to every stride of Hagrid's enormous boots). 

Harry explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys. 

"Lousy Muggles," growled Hagrid. "If I'd've known..." 

“Harry?” A boy’s voice came out of the crowd. Harry looked around, until a form of one of his classmates, Josh, appeared in front of him. “Hello… It’s nice seeing you here. Michael bumped into me, he was so worried, saying that they’ve lost you or something.” 

“Michael? You know where he went?” Harry quickly asked. 

Josh nodded. “They went to Flourish and Blotts to buy Lockhart’s books. Can’t believe we have to buy so many…” Harry could tell he was annoyed. 

Hagrid walked to Flourish and Blotts with the two of them, and once they found Mari, and he knew Harry was safe, he went off after saying, “See yer at Hogwarts!” 

“There you are,” Mari said. “Where did you disappear off to?” 

“Ahem… nowhere… just… got lost…” 

“Oh, Harry!” Cedric gasped, “You almost missed the show…”

“What show?” Harry looked around the book shop. There were banners plastered around the walls:

“GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today 12:30 P.m. to 4:30 P.m.” 

Only now did he notice how crowded the small space was. There was a stand in the middle, alongside a table where Harry figured would be the book signings. 

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard's hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair. 

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash. 

"Out of the way, there," he snarled at Josh, moving back to get a better shot. "This is for the Daily Prophet-" 

"Big deal," said Josh, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it. Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Josh. And then he saw Harry. 

He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, "It can't be Harry Potter?" 

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry's arm, and pulled him to the front. 

The crowd burst into applause. Harry's face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys, who had just come in. 

"Nice big smile, Harry," said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. "Together, you and I are worth the front page." 

When he finally let go of Harry's hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to the Munroes, but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

“I know Harry Potter!” Cedric was proudly saying to the crowd, “he’s my little brother’s best friend, yes he is. Also the youngest seeker of the century. I’m his captain too.” 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lockhart said loudly, waving for quiet. "What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time! 

"When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography, which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge!" 

The crowd applauded again. 

"He had no idea," Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose. "that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" 

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found himself being presented with the entire signed works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, hearing Cedric’s cheering voice louder than any other fangirl in the crowd. 

He spotted the Weasleys. 

Mrs. Weasley looked admiringly towards Lockhart, whilst Ron, who was next to her, looked annoyed. Harry noticed Ron’s father too, his face was identical to Ron’s with his dismay. Harry then looked over to where Ron’s little sister was standing holding her new cauldron. He knew that the Weasleys were poor, and probably would be forfeiting a month’s worth of meals for all their expensive Hogwarts shopping. He decided to walk towards her as she froze in shock. 

"You have these," Harry mumbled to her, tipping the books into the cauldron. "I'll buy my own."

Ginny couldn’t even speak to say thank you. Her mouth was open in shock. 

Mrs. Weasley rushed over all of a sudden, “No, Harry dear, no… They’re your books, we can’t possibly accept-”

“It’s alright,” Harry smiled, catching eyes with Ron. “Ron was a good friend to me during Christmas last year.” 

“Yes, Ron’s told us all about you, dear…” she paused, and then sighed, “very well… we couldn’t thank you enough…” she looked at her daughter. “Ginny, what do you say?” 

“Thank… you…” she muttered. 

Michael pushed through the crowd, finally reaching Harry. He was holding a stack of Lockhart’s books. “Can’t believe Gilderoy Lockhart dragged you up on his stage like that…” he saw Ron and smiled, “hi.” 

“Hey,” Ron grinned back. 

“Oh look who it is…” came a drawling voice from behind them. Harry whipped around, seeing Draco, who wore his usual sneer on his face. “Weasleys… accepting charity from famous Harry Potter, are we? You’ve got him to thank now for another month’s worth of food…” 

“Leave us alone…” Ginny said, all of a sudden, surprising Harry. It was the first time he heard her speak so confidently. 

“Ooh… look at that, Ron. Your sister has more balls than you will ever have,” he sniggered.

“Leave them alone,” Harry repeated, as Mr. Weasley clutched Ron’s robes to stop him from attacking. Harry noticed that Draco hadn’t even looked at him until now. Once he did, he stepped away. 

“Well, well, well... Arthur Weasley.” It was Mr. Malfoy. 

He stood with his hand on Draco's shoulder, sneering. 

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly. 

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy, “All those raids... I hope they're paying you overtime?” He reached into Ginny's cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. 

“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?”

Mr. Weasley flushed a dark scarlet. “We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said. 

“Clearly…”

Ginny must have been frightened to death by this encounter; she dropped her cauldron, and it rolled off towards where Draco stood. 

Harry stepped forward. Draco took another step back, still avoiding his eyes. 

Lucius slowly bent down to pick the cauldron up like it was covered with cockroaches, and slipped in the old transfiguration book he was still holding. 

“Here, girl... take your books... it's the best your father can give you…” he handed the cauldron pitifully to the small, red haired girl, and briskly walked away, followed by Draco. 

“What on earth was that all about?” Cedric made his way through the crowd, cradling his books like they were made of gold. “I just brought myself a brand new copy of all his books. And he signed them for me. Called me a good chap, and said that I’ll be destined to be famous just like him someday!” He was so delighted that he hadn’t even noticed the fowl expressions everyone was wearing. After their encounter with the Malfoys, their mood was ruined.

“I don’t understand,” Michael muttered to Harry, “he didn’t even say hi to us.” 

“He didn’t even look at us,” Harry said. “He stepped away when I tried to step towards him.” 

“Do you think his father has something to do with this?” 

Harry bought himself a set of Lockhart’s books, and when everyone was ready, Mari made her way outside with their big trolley that was filled to the brim. 

They passed through the Leaky Cauldron and made their way out onto the Muggle street. Cedric, yet again, was talking about Lockhart loudly and drawing everyone’s attention to them. “I can’t wait to show him our theatre performance,” he told Raphael, as Victoria walked in front of them. “He’s going to love it. I’m positive…” 

Mari looked at Harry and Michael, “you two hungry? I’m kind of curious to see what Muggle food is like.” 

Harry nodded quickly. 

Cedric paused. “Muggle food? Are you trying to poison us, Mari?” he laughed like it was outlandish. 

“Their food is pretty much the same. Except you have to pour your sauce yourself,” Harry mumbled. 

“Oh no… no that’s a bit too much for me… besides, we haven’t any Muggle money.” 

“I took the liberty of exchanging some galleons for Muggle notes,” she showed them pieces of paper, “you never know when you’ll end up needing them.” 

Cedric tutted, “Muggles are such fascinating creatures… why would you make money out of paper when anyone can rip it… or burn it...” 

They went to a posh vegetarian restaurant. Harry was reminded of the type that Petunia would save up for a year to go to for a special occasion, only to order a piece of bread and butter for Harry, or if he was lucky, a small plate of chips. 

Cedric was genuinely impressed by the food, though he took out his wand several times, trying to magic the ketchup to his plate, and was told off by Mari immediately. 

Harry and Michael were both unnervingly aware of the stares they were getting from the Muggles. 

Once their bellies were full, the surrounding Muggles’ minds were baffled, they left the restaurant with still quite a few Muggle notes left. Mari thought it’d be best to save it for a rainy day, whilst Cedric wanted to go and buy a bunch of Muggle souvenirs just to make fun of them. 

They reached the park and found their Portkey, and to yet another unpleasant ride for Harry, made it back home. 


	4. The Whomping Willow

Despite Cedric trying to spoil Michael’s good mood over the holidays, and Lord Munroe scowling at them whenever him and Harry caught his eye, the both of them still had a good time. 

They went to the beach and relaxed, went hiking through the woods with Mari and playing all sorts of wizarding games. One time Harry couldn’t find Michael, and got worried, but it turned out that Cedric stuffed him in a cupboard and locked it, laughing because he wouldn’t be able to use magic to get out this time. 

Harry liked it at the manor, he just didn’t like some people who lived in it. Lord Munroe really didn’t do or say anything offensive, but Harry couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable in his presence. 

The two boys were glad when it came time to catch the Hogwarts Express. Mari went to the station with them, after another gut wrenching trip with the Portkey.

She gave them their tickets, and made sure to ask if any of them had forgotten anything. 

Harry thought, she really took the motherly role in the family. Their father didn’t seem to care much about them at all. Michael never told Harry what actually happened to his mother though. He didn’t want to press.

“The train leaves in five minutes, so be quick,” Mari said. “I have to go now, I’m going to be late for work.” With that the red haired witch took off. 

Cedric, Victoria and Raphael wasted no time going through Platform 9 ¾. That’s when Harry saw the Weasleys. 

Ron walked over to them, “hey, you guys alright?” 

Harry and Michael nodded. They watched the whole of the Weasley family make their way through the barrier. 

“Had a good summer?” Harry asked Ron. 

Ron nodded, “yeah… though we had to do a lot of degnoming… it’s hard work, I’m telling you…” 

“Lets go before we miss the train,” Michael said, and Ron nodded. 

“I’ll go first,” Harry said, and prepared his luggage. Just like he did last year, he made his way quickly to the barrier, expecting to go right through to the other side.

And then... WHAM-

Harry went crashing straight into the solid, brick wall, Hedwig’s cage flying off his trolley. 

The poor owl hooted and flapped her wings. 

Ron and Michael stared in disbelief. 

Harry was now sprawled on the floor, having flown over his own luggage and looking miserably at the ceiling. 

Muggles passing by were looking strangely at them. 

Harry snapped his head up to look at the time. One minute left. 

Michael ran over to help him up, and put his luggage back on his trolley. 

“What the hell are you two doing?” an officer came rushing in. 

Harry blinked, “N- nothing… lost control of the trolley…”

Ron ran over to pick up Hedwig’s cage, as she screeched. 

Michael ran over to get a good look at the clock. Harry was now feeling the barrier desperately. 

“No… no no… this can’t be happening…” 

“The train has left…” muttered Michael. Harry thought he might start crying. 

“What are we going to do now,” Ron groaned. 

“We can’t just go home…” Harry said weakly. “What will I tell the Dursleys…” 

“I don’t understand how the gateway could have sealed itself,” now Ron was feeling along the wall too, baffled. “What if mum and dad can’t back through…” 

“We have to get to Hogwarts somehow!” Harry said. 

Ron, suddenly looking at them with wide eyes, mumbled, “I have an idea…” 

The three of them left the station, following behind the determined redhead. He pointed at a rusty looking Ford Anglia. 

“You know how to drive a Muggle car?” Harry looked surprised. 

“No… you see, my father put enchantments on it to make it fly. Technically we’re not supposed to fly it, or my father might get into trouble with the ministry… but…”

“It’s a bad idea,” said Michael “we shouldn’t risk something like that.” 

“What other choice do we have?” Ron raised his eyebrows, “We need to get to Hogwarts…”

“But the underage magic rule,” Harry added.

“Well, the car is using the magic and not us, so we should be fine… oh, come on, you two…” 

Ron opened the boot of the car and stuffed his luggage inside. The other two boys filled up the boot and the back seat with all their stuff. Ron got in the driver’s seat, Harry next to him and Michael in the back with their pets. 

"Check that no one's watching," said Ron, starting the ignition with another tap of his wand. 

Harry stuck his head out of the window, and Michael looked behind: Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty. "Okay," he said. 

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them vanished, and so did they. Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars. 

"Let's go," said Ron's voice from his right. And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them. 

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, Michael and Ron reappeared. 

"Uh-oh," said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. "It's faulty-" 

“How can magic be faulty?” Michael asked. 

Both Harry and Ron pushed at the button. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again. 

"Hold on!" Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy. 

"Now what?" said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides. 

"We need to see the train to know what direction to go in," said Ron. 

"Dip back down again! Quickly!" 

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

"I can see it!" Harry yelled. "Right ahead… there!" 

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake. 

"Due north," said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard. "Okay, we'll just have to check on it every half hour or so… hold on.” 

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight. It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy clouds, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

Michael looked as pale as the clouds, though, staying quiet and not saying a word. 

"All we've got to worry about now are airplanes," said Ron.

The three of them flew for what felt like hours. After they finished all the sweets that they had, they were thirsty and hot. The car must’ve absorbed all the heat from the sun. 

"Can't be much further, can it?" croaked Ron, hours later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink. 

"Ready for another check on the train?" 

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snow-capped mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds. Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances. 

"It's probably just tired," said Ron. "It's never been this far before…”

And they all pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest. 

"Not far," said Ron, more to the car than to his friends, "not far now," and he patted the dashboard nervously. 

Michael was now holding Cheshire in his lap, looking around nervously. 

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew. 

"There!" Harry shouted, making Ron and Michael jump. "Straight ahead!" 

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle. But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed. 

“Come on,” Ron whined, giving the steering wheel a little shake, "nearly there, come on-" 

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. 

Harry found himself gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew toward the lake. Cheshire had now jumped up and hissed, but there was nowhere for him to go. Michael tried to catch him but it was no use. Now they had a wild cat on the loose, jumping around the car sporadically. 

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Ron's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again. 

“Come on,” Ron muttered “Michael, contain your bloody cat…” 

“I’m trying…” 

They were over the lake, the castle was right ahead. 

Ron put his foot down. There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely. 

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence. Even the cat stopped, frozen in fear. 

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall. 

“Noooooo!" Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude the whole time. 

Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his back pocket “STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them.

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed, lunging for the steering wheel, but too late. 

CRUNCH. 

With an ear splitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-size lump was throbbing on Harry's head where he had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron let out a low, despairing groan. A great twig barely missed Michael’s white face. 

“Are you both okay?” Harry said urgently. 

“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my wand-” 

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters. 

Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they'd be able to mend it up at the school, but he never even got started. At that very moment, something hit his side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending him lurching sideways into Ron, and Michael almost fell out of the broken window. 

Just then, an equally heavy blow hit the roof. 

“What's happen-?” Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. 

The tree they had hit was attacking them. 

Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach. 

“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving.

“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight against his door, but next second he had been knocked backward into Harry's lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch. “We're done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating... the engine had restarted. 

“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach. 

“That,” panted Ron, “was close. Well done, car…” 

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With four sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was sprawled on the damp ground. 

Loud thuds told him that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig's cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look. Michael’s cat, Cheshire, on the other hand, ran straight for the forbidden forest.

“Cheshire, no!” Michael reached an arm out, lying on the grass. 

Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily. 

“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand. “Dad'll kill me!” 

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust. 

“Can you believe our luck?” said Ron miserably, bending down to pick up Scabbers, his old rat. “Of all the trees we could've hit, we had to get one that hits back.” 

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly. 

"Come on," said Harry wearily, "we'd better get up to the school…”

Michael was staring at the forbidden forest. He was crying his eyes out. 

Harry was patting Michael’s back as they made their way towards the entrance. Ron pulled open the doors and they came in, muddied up and bruised. 

Then they heard the Sorting Hat’s song, and ran towards the great hall doors. Ron was excited to see his sister be sorted. He peeked through the crack in the doors. “I see her…” he said with a smile. “She’s with the other first years…” 

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on his head. Harry's eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet. 

“Hang on…” Harry muttered to Ron. “There's an empty chair at the staff table... where's Snape?” 

Professor Severus Snape was Harry's least favorite teacher. Harry also happened to be Snape's least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by everybody except perhaps Draco, Snape taught Potions.

“Maybe he's ill!” said Ron hopefully. 

“Maybe he's left,” said Michael, “because he missed out on the Defense Against Dark Arts job again…” 

“Or he might have been sacked!” said Ron enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him…” 

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he's waiting to hear why you three didn't arrive on the school train.”

Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he was smiling in a way that told Harry they were in very deep trouble. 

“Follow me,” said Snape.

Not daring even to look at each other, Harry, Michael and Ron followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. 

A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons. 

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing. They entered Snape's office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Harry didn't really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. 

Snape closed the door and turned to look at them. “So,” he said softly, “the train isn't good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekicks. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys?” 

“No, sir, it was the barrier at King's Cross, it-” 

“Silence!” said Snape coldly at Michael, whom was still on the edge of tears. “What have you done with the car?” 

Ron gulped. 

This wasn't the first time Snape had given Harry the impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, he understood, as Snape unrolled today's issue of the Evening Prophet. 

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the headline: “FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES.” 

He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower... at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing... Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police... Six or seven Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear... his own son…” 

Harry felt as though he'd just been walloped in the stomach by one of the mad tree's larger branches. If anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car…

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Snape went on. 

“That tree did more damage to us than we-” Ron blurted out.

“Silence!” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. As for Potter and Munroe…” he turned to look at the two Slytherin boys, who shuddered in anticipation, “you two are very lucky that I’m inclined to change my mind… just… this once...” 

Harry breathed out with relief. Was Snape really being soft for once? 

“I shall go and fetch the people who can expel Mr. Weasley, though. You three will wait here.” 

Ron looked at Harry and Michael, white-faced. 

Harry didn't feel hungry anymore. He now felt extremely sick with guilt. He tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Snape's desk. If Snape had gone to fetch Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, Ron was hardly any better off. She might be fairer than Snape to him, but she was still extremely strict. 

“Why would he let us off like that?” Michael whispered.

“It’s easy to guess…” Ron muttered, “You’re the best seeker the school’s seen in a very long time, Harry. I doubt he’d jump at the first opportunity to expel you.” 

Harry shuddered, “I bet he’s going to send us in the Forbidden Forest again…”

“I hope so,” Michael said quietly, “then I can try to find Cheshire.” 

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him. Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either he had forgotten just how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen her this angry before. 

She raised her wand the moment she entered; the three boys flinched, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted. 

“Sit,” she said, and they backed into chairs by the fire. Harry and Michael had to share since there was only two. 

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously. 

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

“...so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn't get on the train.” 

“Why didn't you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry. Harry gaped at her. Now she said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have done. 

“W- we were scared that you’d… not care and we’d have to stay home…” 

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is ridiculous.”

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now looking happier than ever, opened it. 

There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore. 

Harry's whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave. He stared down his very crooked nose at them, and Harry suddenly found himself wishing they were still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow. 

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, "Please explain why you did this." 

It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry hated the disappointment in his voice. That maybe somehow he had proven him right to think that he would turn bad, since he was in Slytherin.

For some reason, he was unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station. He knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions about the car. When Harry had finished, he merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles. 

“I'll go and get my stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless sort of voice. 

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked Professor McGonagall. 

“Well, you're expelling me, aren't you?” said Ron. 

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore. 

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I must impress upon you three the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you… all three of you,” he added. 

Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his throat and said, “Professor Dumbledore, this boy has flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree... surely acts of this nature-”

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on Mr. Weasley’s punishment, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly. “He’s in her house, and her responsibility. You’re free to decide the punishments of your own students, aren’t you?” 

Snape scowled. 

Dumbledore turned to Professor McGonagall. “I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I've got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there's a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample-” 

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Ron as he allowed himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle. 

“You'd better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you're bleeding.” 

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve. 

“Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted-” 

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor McGonagall. “Your sister is also in Gryffindor.” 

“Oh, good,” said Ron. 

“And speaking of Gryffindor, and Slytherin too-” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn't started, so... so Both of our houses shouldn't really have points taken from it… should it?” he finished, watching her anxiously. 

Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but he was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway. “I will not take any points tonight,” she said, and Harry's heart lightened considerably. “But Ron, you will get detention… And Professor Snape will sort you two out later.” 

It was better than Harry had expected. As for Dumbledore's writing to the Dursleys, that was nothing. Harry knew perfectly well they'd just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn't squashed him flat. Michael was sure his father wouldn’t care, either. He might get told off for associating with a Weasley more than anything. 

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape's desk. A large plate of sandwiches, three silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop. 

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitory,” she said. “I must also return to the feast.”

So the three of them ate their sandwiches, relieved that they weren’t expelled and all of that was for nothing. 

“We almos’ had it, I’m tellin’ you,” Ron sighed, his mouth full.

“I still haven’t gotten over the fact that Snape passed up on the chance of expelling me… even if it is for Quidditch…” Harry drank his pumpkin juice. 

“I still haven’t gotten over the fact that Cheshire ran away,” Michael murmured, not really even eating, just pulling his cheese and tomato sandwich apart and taking the cheese out. 

“Why on earth did that barrier not let us through?” Harry still couldn’t take his mind off it. 

Ron shrugged, just as puzzled as Harry. 

“We’re going to have to be really careful from now on, Harry,” Michael said. “One wrong move and we can say goodbye to Hogwarts.” 

Harry nodded. “I’ve been having bad luck all summer. Hopefully that was the end of it.” 

They ate in silence for another minute, before Harry paused. “Why aren’t we allowed to go to the feast?” 

“Probably doesn’t want us to burst in there and have everyone riled up, I’m guessing,” Michael shrugged. 

* * *

After they were done, Ron made his way to the Gryffindor Tower, and Harry and Michael made their way down to the dungeons. 

They both stopped at the door of the Slytherin common room, and looked at each other. 

“Do you think the password this year’s the same?” Harry wondered.

Michael shrugged.

“Pure-blood,” he said.

The door opened with a sound of scraping stone. 

They walked in to be greeted with several staring faces. 

“There you are!” Cedric bellowed, “Rumour has it that you two flew here in a Muggle car with that Weasley boy!” 

‘It’s funny how fast the whole school finds out when something like this happens,’ Harry thought to himself. 

“Michael, I’m very crossed... look at you, you look like you’ve been savagely attacked.” 

“We were savagely attacked,” Harry said, “by a tree.”

“A tree? Are you having a laugh?” 

“Cheshire ran away into the forest,” Michael mumbled, looking down. 

“Ha, good. I always hated that cat… Anyway, be grateful you weren’t expelled. God, my little brother is such a troublemaker. Can’t keep his devilish nose out of mischief.” Cedric tutted and walked away. 

Harry saw Cole and Evalyn De’Claire, two blonde twins, sitting on a sofa and looking at them with intrigue. Josh was in the corner by himself, drawing something, and Draco was with Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle, not paying them any heed. 

“Let’s go downstairs,” Michael said to Harry quietly. Harry knew that he was just as uncomfortable by the atmosphere as he was. Before they had the chance to go, their path was blocked by none other than Pansy Parkinson. 

“What a wild entry, Potter. Gryffindor house thinks you’re a legend. Not to mention that you’re actually ruining our reputation by hanging around with those Weasleys.” 

“Can you please move out of our way,” Harry raised his eyebrows. He really wasn’t in the mood. 

“...next thing we know, we’re going to see them hanging ‘round with Granger… of course you would be… Muggle loving scum. You’re both a disgrace to Slytherin,” she practically hissed. 

“Move out of my way,” Harry repeated, more coldly, this time, and pushing past Parkinson, made his way down the smooth marble steps. Michael followed quickly behind him. He didn’t say anything, he could tell that Harry was in a fowl mood. 

They reached the second year Dormitory and found their things by their beds. Harry sat down in a glum, and began to examine the cuts on his face in the mirror. 

Michael started to unpack his things slowly. He couldn’t stop thinking about his poor cat. How scared he must be out there, if he’s even alive… 


	5. Gilderoy Lockhart

The next day didn’t go much better. Harry woke up with an intense headache. It wasn’t his scar, though. Must have been all that shaking from that demonic tree. 

Him and Michael went upstairs, out of the common room and the Dungeon, and then down several more steps towards the Great Hall. 

The four long house tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). ‘Just like my mood,’ Harry couldn’t help but think. 

They took their seats at the Slytherin table, between Josh and Evalyn. Evalyn was telling Cole about her run-in with Peeves this morning. Cole was concentrating more on squeezing the whole bottle of syrup into his porridge. 

Harry poured himself a glass of fresh milk; he didn’t feel much like eating. Michael prodded some toast on his plate with his finger. He knew that all his friend could think about right now was Cheshire. 

“Mail's due any minute!” they heard Longbottom from the Gryffindor table say loudly. “I think Gran's sending a few things I forgot.”

They heard Draco snigger from across the table. “Expect to see some brains flying in…” he said, loud enough for Neville to hear. 

Harry thought that he seemed like himself. He couldn’t figure out what it was that they did wrong to have him avoid them. Was he mad at Harry for not writing to him during summer? 

That’s when the mail began arriving. Hundreds of owls came flying down across the Great Hall, dropping packages and letters to their recipients. 

Harry and Michael got nothing. 

Draco was showing off to Pansy his brand new pair of dragon-hide gloves. 

Wait what? Harry squinted. Was Draco friends with Pansy Parkinson now? 

“Can we go look for Cheshire after classes…” Michael mumbled, not noticing, or even caring. 

“Where’d you lose him?” asked Josh. 

“He ran off into the Forbidden Forest…” 

“Not to be... uhm… insensitive but… I doubt a cat is going to survive five minutes in there…”

The moment Josh said it, he regretted it. Tears welled up in Michael’s eyes. 

“B- but… we never know, do we? Maybe he’s fine… Maybe Hagrid’s got him,” Harry said quickly. “Let’s go talk to Hagrid during break.” 

Michael nodded solemnly. 

Just then, their attention was forced upon some sort of explosion from the Gryffindor table. There was a loud roar of a sound accompanying it. Harry thought he saw the milk in his goblet shake. 

“STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE…” 

Harry saw, to his horror, a letter, scarlet blood in colour, yelling at Ron.

“...LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS COULD HAVE DIED…” 

Ron’s face was now the same shade of red as the letter that was shouting in Mrs. Weasley’s angry voice. 

“...ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED! YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.” 

A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron's hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes.

“What was that?” Harry looked at Michael, shocked. He had never in his life seen a letter shout at someone before. 

“It’s a Howler… poor Ron,” Michael whispered. 

“Howler?” Harry was even more confused. 

“It’s a very angry letter that explodes if you don’t open it… I had one from Cedric once when I tried to run away. Somehow it found me…” he shuddered. 

“Oh,” Harry whispered. He saw how embarrassed Ron looked, and felt bad for him, as the Slytherins on his table sniggered and pointed. Eventually the redhead put his head in his arms.

Hermione closed her book, Voyages with Vampires, and looked down at the top of Ron's head, “Well, I don't know what you expected, Ron, but you-” 

“Don't tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ron. 

Harry’s insides were burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. And it was all their fault... But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor Snape was striding along the Slytherin table, handing out course schedules. Harry might have just imagined it, or he threw his parchment at him bitterly. He picked it up from Michael’s plate of toast and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first.

Harry and Michael left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. 

Instead of looking to where Harry was looking, Michael was longingly gazing off towards the Forbidden Forest. 

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the students standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. The two boys had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. 

Professor Sprout's arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings. 

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. 

Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.

“Oh, hello there!” he called, beaming around at the assembled students. “Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels…” 

“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self. 

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before. Greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. 

Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. He was about to follow Michael inside when Lockhart's hand shot out. 

“Harry! I've been wanting a word… you don't mind if he's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?” 

Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, “That's the ticket,” and closed the greenhouse door in her face. 

“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head. “Harry, Harry, Harry.” 

Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing. 

“When I heard… well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself.” 

Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don't know when I've been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry.” It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn't talking.

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I?” said Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn't wait to do it again.” 

“Oh, no, Professor, see-” 

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping his shoulder. “I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste... and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head... but see here, young man, you can't start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an internationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry's forehead. “I know, I know... it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award five times in a row, as I have... but it's a start, Harry, it's a start.” He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. 

Harry stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened the door and slid inside. 

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored ear muffs were lying on the bench. When Harry had taken his place between Josh and Michael, she said, “We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?”

Pansy Parkinson’s hand shot up. 

Michael also raised his hand.

“Yes Mr. Munroe…” 

“It’s a powerful plant that can be used to lift curses or restore transfigurated states.” 

“Well done, Mr. Munroe. Well done. 10 points to Slytherin…” 

Pansy shot a look of malice towards Michael, before looking away again. 

“The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

Draco raised his hand. 

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” 

“It’s cries can kill you or something…” 

“That’s right. Another 10 points for Slytherin.” 

“Professor Snape told me all about Mandrakes,” Draco remarked to Pansy. 

“Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young.” Professor Sprout pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. 

A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harry, who didn't have the slightest idea what Draco meant by the “cries” of the Mandrake. 

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout. There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn't pink and fluffy. 

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right... earmuffs on.” 

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear. Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.

Hufflepuffs seemed fascinated, however, Slytherins pulled faces of disgust. 

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. She dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet,” she said calmly as though she'd just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. “However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. 

"Four to a tray, there is a large supply of pots here, compost in the sacks over there... and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething.” She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder. 

Harry, Michael and Josh were joined at their tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but had never spoken to. 

“I’m Justin… Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said timidly, shaking Harry by the hand. 

“I’m Harry, Harry Potter…” 

Justin nodded, like he already knew, and looked at Michael and Josh. 

“I’m Michael.”

“Josh.” 

“Look at that, Potter’s friends with a Hufflepuff now. When you thought he couldn’t sink any lower,” Pansy laughed. 

Harry saw her whole gang laughing along with her, except for Draco. He was looking at his Mandrake with disgust. 

“Is it true…” Justin muttered, “that you flew a car here with Ron Weasley?” 

Harry nodded a bit, he couldn’t help but smile. He tried to wipe it from his face; he remembered Ron’s Howler. 

“I think that’s kind of cool…” the Hufflepuff boy said, starting to sound a little more confident as he spoke. “What you did last year too… stood up against… you-know-who… I think it’s amazing… that you’d stand up for us like that.” 

Harry was confused. Stand up for who? 

“You see,” Justin began, as they filled their pots with dragon dung compost. “I was supposed to go to Eton… and then I found out I would be going to Hogwarts instead. A lot of people told me to stay away from Slytherins since they hate Muggle-borns. And that You-Know-Who also hated Muggle-borns…” 

Both Michael and Harry exchanged glances. This boy sure was talkative. 

“...Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed when I got my letter, but since I made her read Lockhart's books I think she's begun to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family. D’you like Lockhart by the way, I think he’s amazing...” 

“Yeah… sure…” Harry said awkwardly. “I’m glad that your mother is so understanding.” 

After that they didn't have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. 

Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth, but didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.

Once they were done they were tired and covered in mud. They had to go back to the castle to clean themselves up. 

Next, they had Transfiguration with Gryffindors. 

Professor McGonagall's classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer. He was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand. He looked at Michael with dismay, who had made a perfect little brown button. 

Ron was having far worse problems from the desk in front. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn't pleased. 

Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone fiIed out of the classroom except Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk. "Stupid… useless... thing..."

Harry paused at the door to see what he was doing. “Can’t you write home to get a new one?” he asked. 

Ron huffed, irritated. “And get a Howler back? No thanks… “It’s all your fault you broke your wand, Ron… shouldn’t have taken the car!”” 

“I’m sorry…” Harry felt bad for him. He didn’t know what to say. It was his fault partially too. 

“Did you see how many buttons Hermione made? That show off…”

Harry smiled a bit, “Michael also managed to make one. I don’t know how they do it…” 

The two of them walked to lunch together, seperating to their own house tables. 

Harry sat next to Michael, who was looking at his schedule. “We’ve got Defence Against the Dark Arts next,” he began, “Professor Lockhart will be teaching them…” 

Harry wasn’t sure if he had heard him correctly. Not what he was saying, but the tone of his voice. He almost seemed excited. 

“I’m not sure if I like him…” Harry said, putting mashed potatoes on his plate. 

“Doesn’t matter, he’s a great wizard,” Michael muttered, “and maybe… because he loves you so much… he might be able to do you a favour if you asked…”

“I’m not asking Lockhart to go and save your cat from the Forbidden Forest…” he paused. They forgot to go see Hagrid. After all them Mandrakes, it completely left his mind. 

“Okay,” Michael looked dejected. 

Harry looked at him quickly, “let’s go ask Hagrid.”

And so they left the great hall and made their way towards the castle entrance. Harry became aware that he was being closely watched. Looking up, he saw the very small, mousy-haired boy he'd seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry looked at him, he went bright red.

"All right, Harry? I'm- I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, hope you don’t mind. D'you think- would it be all right if- can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully. 

"A picture?" Harry repeated blankly. 

"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead," his eyes raked Harry's hairline, "and that you are the nicest Slytherin in school… and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." 

Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you!" He looked imploringly at Harry, "maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?" Pansy Parkinson’s sour voice rang behind him. She was exiting the Great Hall, followed by Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise. 

“Make a line everybody, Potter’s giving out free autographs! Got a photographer here at the ready and everything!” 

That’s when Harry saw Draco come out behind them. It was as if Harry and Michael hadn’t existed. 

“What’s with the Muggle-born, Pansy?”

“He’s a photographer for none other than Harry Potter himself!”

For the first time, Draco looked straight at Harry. 

Harry thought that he might throw an insult at him, and he would much rather he did. But he didn’t. His eyes shifted away. “Oh, look…” he sneered all of a sudden. Ron Weasley made his way out of the great hall. “It’s Weasley. Trying your best to become famous? Think crashing into the Whomping Willow’s going to give you a cool looking scar?” 

Draco’s friends wheezed as Ron stopped to look at him with a scowl. “Eat slugs, Malfoy…” 

Draco’s laugh got even louder. “I think I’ll pass up on your family’s sunday roast, thanks.” 

Then, Harry saw two people he really didn’t want to see. 

"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding towards them down the steps, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. Cedric Munroe was right by his side. "Who's giving out signed photos?" 

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!"

Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation, Harry couldn’t look towards the other Slytherins, as they watched him with smirks on their faces. Cedric stepped to Harry’s left.

"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it for you."

Cedric coughed, “make it a triple. I’ll sign it too.” 

“W- who are you?” Colin muttered. 

Cedric’s put his hand to his eyes. “Oh dear… Oh dear… how Muggle youth is so uneducated… Why I’m Cedric Munroe!” 

Colin, feeling like he should know him, slowly nodded and fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes. 

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry, who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to his side. Michael was trying his best to keep up behind them. 

“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. “I covered up for you back there with young Creevey. If he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much…” 

Deaf to Harry's stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase. 

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible... looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but-” he gave a little chortle, “I don't think you're quite there yet.”

They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Harry go at last. 

Harry yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart's books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking at the real thing. Michael sat next to him, not really knowing what to say. He figured bringing up his cat right now wouldn’t be a very good idea. 

The rest of the class flooded in, taking their seats. Hermione Granger took a seat right at the front to be as close to Lockhart as possible. 

“He’s a nightmare,” Ron said, taking his seat next to Harry, ignoring the looks they were getting from Parkinson’s gang. “Thinks he’s all that… I bet he hasn’t done half the things he writes in these stupid books…” 

Harry nodded in agreement. 

“You could've fried an egg on your face, though, Harry” said Ron. “You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.”

“Shut up,” snapped Harry. The last thing he needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harry Potter fan club.”

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. 

He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front. "Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. 

"Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award... but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!" He waited for them to laugh; and they did. Just not as he had hoped. Draco and his friends were sniggering noisily. 

“I see you've all bought a complete set of my books… well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in.” 

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty minutes... start... now!” 

Harry looked down at his paper and read: 

“1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart 's favorite color? 

  1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition? 
  2. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?”



On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to: 

“54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?” 

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut... hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully. I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples… not “death to all…” I’m not even going to say that word, Mr. Malfoy… I’m inclined to give you detention for that” he looked towards Draco, clearly offended. Though Draco was smirking. 

Harry wondered what he wrote. He wasn’t alone, in fact. The whole class were muttering between themselves. 

“...But Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions. Good girl! In fact,” he flipped her paper over, “full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione raised a trembling hand. 

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so... to business…” He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

“Granger… what a know it all. I bet she knows what colour underwear he’s wearing,” Millicent Bulstrode snorted. She was a big, hefty Slytherin girl who was friends with Parkinson. Harry thought she smelled of fish. 

“Now, be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage. 

Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. 

The other Slytherins had stopped laughing now. 

Neville Longbottom was cowering in his front row seat.

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.” 

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover. 

“Yes,” he said dramatically. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.” 

Draco let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror. 

“Yes?” He smiled at Draco. 

“Well, they're not very dangerous looking, are they?” Draco stated matter-of-factly.

“Don't be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Draco. “Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!” 

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them. 

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let's see what you make of them!” And he opened the cage.

It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville Longbottom was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

“Come on now, round them up, round them up, they're only pixies,” Lockhart shouted. He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!” 

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, too. 

Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.

Harry heard a litany of screams and laughs of the pixies. Draco was sniggering too, although he was under the table somewhere; Harry recognised his laughter. 

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. 

In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, and Michael, who were almost at the door, and Hermione (still at her desk) and said, "Well, I'll ask you four to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him. 

"Can you believe him?" roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear. 

"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," said Hermione, who stayed behind wanting to impress Lockhart probably, and got up. She immobilized two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm, impressing both Ron and Michael, and stuffed them back into their cage. 

"Hands on?" said Harry, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. "He didn't have a clue what he was doing-" 

"Rubbish," said Hermione, her arms crossed.

“He’s done so many amazing things,” Michael said, “Why would he be afraid of some pixies?” 

"And you really believe everything that idiot has written?" Ron muttered.

“Ron!” Hermione snapped, stuffing the last Pixie into the cage and closing it shut. “I’m going to go tell Professor Lockhart that I’ve managed to catch most of the pixies. And I’m sure neither of you will mind since you all seem to hate him so much…” with that, she huffed and left the classroom. 

“Something’s seriously wrong with that girl, I’m telling you,” Ron mumbled. 

* * *

The next chance they could, Harry and Michael made their way to Hagrid’s to ask him about Michael’s cat, Cheshire. On the way to the hut, Harry was telling Michael how angry Hedwig has been with him ever since that incident with the Whomping Willow. 

“At least she didn’t fly off into the forest and never came back…” Michael said, clearly feeling like his situation was much worse. 

Hagrid was pleased to see them. “Come on in,” he invited the two boys in and closed the door, offering them some rock cakes. 

“I’m okay thanks,” Michael said, “my cat, Cheshire, ran off into the Forbidden Forest. I was just wondering if you had seen him?” 

“Sorry,” Hagrid began, “but ther’s not much you can do… yer cat wouldn’t survive that long in the Forbidden Forest…” 

* * *

Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Most of the time he saw Cedric Munroe by his side, which took out two birds with one stone. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry's schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back, however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.

Michael had been very quiet since Hagrid killed off any hope left for him of ever finding Cheshire. Draco was still pretending that they didn’t exist. 

So with one thing and another, Harry was quite glad to reach the weekend. Though he couldn’t get much of a lie in, being shaken awake early that Saturday by Cedric Munroe. 

“Come on, Potter. Quidditch. Don’t think we’ll let you off you little scallywag, oh no... We’ve got a lot of training to do.” 

Harry couldn’t tell what time it was. The varnished windows produced nothing more than a soft, green glow of the lake outside. 

“Don’t bother bringing your Nimbus Two Thousand. There’s a surprise for us in the broom shed.” 

As he pulled on his Quidditch robes, scribbled a note for Michael telling him where he’d gone, and tried to keep up with Cedric’s long, swift strides, he was shocked to find out that it was still crack of dawn. 

“We’re up nice and early! Professor Snape signed a note for us, in case other houses try to take the field this fine morning.” 

“A note?” Harry panted, “Why?” 

“Draco Malfoy,” said Cedric. Harry paused at the top of the staircase. Draco was waiting by the Slytherin door. 

“We’re going to have to train up our new keeper, of course.” 

Draco didn’t say anything, as they walked out of the dungeons towards the entrance of the Castle. Outside, the rest of the Slytherin team waited impatiently. 

“If it’s going to take you as long as you took to get ready, then we don’t stand a chance against Gryffindor,” Victoria rolled her eyes. 

“It’s alright, Vicky… the boys didn’t know,” he flipped his hand dismissively. “Anyway, lets go to the get our brooms and head to the fields before Wood manages to materialise.” 

When they reached the broom sheds, and opened the one that belongs to Slytherin, Harry’s eyes went wide open with awe. There stood, new and shiny, seven Nimbus 2001s. The newer models that came out this year. 

“Father got me mine before it came out,” bragged Draco, picking up one which belonged to him. “But of course, he took the liberty of providing my team with the best.” 

“Wow, how very generous of him,” Cedric put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “We’ll be the real winners again, won’t we. Gryffindor doesn’t stand a chance. No one does.” 

Harry watched the others take their new brooms, admiring them like they were made of gold. There was one left in the corner, and Harry approached it, taking it and eyeing the golden lettering on the side “Nimbus Two Thousand and One”. The broom itself was black and very pretty. Harry felt bad for his old broom, but this was clearly an upgrade he couldn’t refuse. 

He turned to look at Draco, “it was nice of your father, thank him for me.” 

Draco turned his head, “hmm…” he strutted off behind the others. 

That was the most he had said to him all year so far. Harry gathered his bearings and tried to catch up. 

But they were a little too late. Wood, the Gryffindor Captain, and his team, were already flying around, warming their brooms up. 

Before Cedric could grandiously announce his presence, Colin Creevey ran up in front of him, holding a picture of him, Harry and Lockhart. “I- I managed to develop it… look it’s moving…”

Cedric looked down at him gingerly, “good for you… Wow, I look good… haha... now, unless you want to learn more about my theatre club, I suggest you move over, little man.” 

“Harry!” Colin suddenly let out his breath like he had never seen something more amazing. “Your new broom…” he ignored the other Slytherins. “You look like a champion…” 

“Here goes,” Draco sneered.

“Please sign the picture,” he begged. 

“No, Colin. We haven’t got time. We need to go practice.” 

“Cool…” he said in awe, “can I watch? Can I take pictures?”

“Take as many as you like,” Cedric grinned, “just move out of our way.” 

“O- Of course,” Colin moved out of the way quickly, before jumping in front of Harry and almost tripping over Draco’s robes. 

“Watch it, you stupid fanboy,” Draco snarled.

Colin didn’t seem to hear him. “Harry… You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren't you, Harry? Weren't you?" 

Harry nodded, wishing he could just leave him be. 

“Harry… that’s so amazing… I can’t b- believe that someone like you knows who I am…”

Without wasting another second, Harry made his way past him, and stopped as soon as he saw what was going on. Wood and Cedric stood face to face, their teams behind them, like they were about to have a duel or something.

“Professor Snape wrote a note, look… We’ve got the field to share this morning, Wood. And I will share, since I’m so generous. It would be a pity to win so easily against an untrained team...” 

“I can’t believe it,” said Wood. “For what reason do you need the field so desperately this morning?” 

“Why, to train our brand new keeper, of course…” Cedric threw his arms out dramatically, before presenting none other than Draco Malfoy. 

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred Weasley, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

“Are those…” George Weasley’s eyes widened in surprise, “Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones?” 

“Draco’s father had been generous enough to provide the team with the best racing brooms,” Cedric boasted, his arm around Draco. 

“I have to say,” muttered Fred to George, “at least they got rid of Flint.” 

Both twins sniggered. 

That’s when Michael appeared by Harry’s side. He was so quiet that Harry almost jumped out of his skin once he heard him say, “wow… that broom…” 

“Isn’t it fancy, eh, little brother?” Cedric grinned. The Gryffindors dispersed. 

Cedric walked over to Michael and put his hand on his head, patting him. “I know what you’re thinking, little brother. ‘Oh please can I try riding this beauty?’ Don’t even think about it. Harry, don’t you dare let him have a go. You’ll be left with two Nimbuses two thousand and ones,” he laughed like his joke was the funniest one he made so far. “That’s because he’d break it in two,” he added, before turning around swiftly and exiting stage. 

Harry looked at Michael, whose cheeks were bright red. “I’ll let you have a go if you want… you’re not that terrible at flying.” 

“I’m alright, thanks,” Michael muttered. 

“Hey Fred…” they heard a familiar voice. It was Ron. Hermione was right by his side. Harry figured they went off to find some ingredients for their next potions lesson. 

“Oh, hey, Ron. Came to watch us play?”

“No, just passing through,” Ron smiled. “We’ll definitely come to watch you play against Slytherin, though…” he looked over at the Slytherin team unpleasantly, “they got new brooms?” 

“And a new keeper too… Draco Malfoy. His father got them new Nimbuses… can you believe it?” 

“At least Flint’s gone,” Ron shrugged. 

“That’s a field invasion!” Cedric snapped. 

“Your brother’s on the pitch,” Fred eyed him distastefully. 

“That’s right… Michael, off… you little rule breaker just wait till your father hears about this…” 

Michael’s eyes widened. 

“Well if it isn’t Ronald Weasley,” Draco landed, sliding off his Nimbus 2001 like down a stair railing. “And his stupid girlfriend, Granger.” 

He saw the impressed look on both their faces once they saw his broom up close, and added smoothly, “good, aren't they?”

Even Ron couldn’t argue against that. 

“But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.”

The Slytherin team howled with laughter. 

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure talent.” 

The smug look on Draco’s face flickered. “No one asked your opinion, you fiIthy little Mudblood,” he spat.

The Gryffindors stared at Draco like he had just slapped Hermione. 

Hermione’s face turned red. 

Cedric had to dive in front of Draco to stop Fred and George Weasley jumping on him. Alicia shrieked, “How dare you!” and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, “You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Cedric’s arm at Draco’s face. 

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass.

“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” squealed Hermione. 

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap. 

The Slytherin team, save for Harry, were paralyzed with laughter. Cole De’Claire was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Draco was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. 

The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch him.

Harry didn’t move. 

“Come on,” Hermione said, gingerly pulling him up by the arm of his robe. “L- lets go to Madam Pomfrey…” 

“What- what an adorable couple!” Evalyn giggled. Harry had never seen her so mean before. And she didn’t look it, either, as she tried her best to contain her laughter. 

It soon died down, and the Slytherins dispersed again. The Gryffindors looked like their mood was spoiled. 

“Michael,” Cedric shouted suddenly, making both him and Harry jump. “Off the pitch, now!” 

Michael nodded quickly, and made his way towards the stands. 

Harry reached his hand out to stop him “wait…” he looked confused. “What did Draco say that was so bad?” 

“He said…” Michael glanced around, and then looked at Harry. “Mudblood.”

“And?” Harry muttered, “I heard him say it before.” 

“It’s not a nice word, Harry,” Michael said quickly. “It’s a very nasty thing to call someone who’s Muggle-born.” 

“Oh,” Harry muttered. “So it’s kind of like… wizard swearing?” 

Michael nodded. 

Harry never quite got why swearing was so bad. Same with saying Voldemort’s name. Was it really that offensive? 

He hoped that Ron was alright, though. 

“Michael, how many times do I have to tell you!” Cedric pranced towards him, with an irritated look on his face. He grabbed him by the ear and dragged him off to the stands. 

Harry watched, wide-eyed. He was about to interfere, of course, until the Gryffindor seeker, Jonathan Crowe, sped on his Nimbus 2000 right past them. 

“What an idiot…” Cedric cursed.

Jonathan Crowe flew in a circle, before blocking their way. 

“Move out of the way…” 

“Not until you stop harassing that kid…” 

Harry looked, puzzled. A Gryffindor doing what Harry, in the moment, couldn’t do; standing up for his friend. A Slytherin. 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Cedric gave a forced sort of laugh. “This little miscreant won’t get off the field no matter how many times I tell him.” he let go of Michael, who was already making his way towards the stands, whilst having a stare off with the third year Gryffindor, whom looked like the older boy’s antics didn’t scare him one bit. 

“Are you practicing, Potter, or what?” he heard Victoria’s voice behind him. “Wake up!” 

Harry nodded quickly and got onto his new Nimbus 2001. The feel of the broom was unlike anything he could have ever imagined. As he rose higher into the air, he marvelled at how much easier it was to maneuver, and how much faster it accelerated. 

As he flew across the field, looping around the hoops, a flashing light almost blinded him from the stands below. 

Colin Creevey was taking pictures of him. 

Harry didn’t want to stop flying, not to even tell Colin off. At one point, though, Lockhart joined the boy’s side, patting him on his shoulder. 

Harry thought the boy would faint, but missed the chance to see it, turning on his brand new broom as easily as walking. 

He caught another glimpse of Colin Creevey and Gilderoy Lockhart, whom waved at him below his pointy hat, and went crashing straight into someone, not realizing at first who it was. 

“Sorry, I just-” Harry began. He saw that it was Draco. 

Caught off guard, he almost toppled off his broom, but Harry managed to grab him by his robe. 

Cedric flew towards them. “Now, boys… I know these brooms are quite fast, which can be hard to get used to… but we wouldn’t want any accidents before the actual games begin.”

Draco straightened his robes with one hand, not even looking at Harry, who was apologising once again. 


	6. Detention

Once training was done and over, Harry and Michael made their way down to Hagrid’s. Harry wanted to show him his new broom, even if it was from Draco, who was no longer talking to him. 

“Won’ be surprised if his father, Lucius Malfoy, tol’ him to stay away from ye…” Hagrid begun, pouring both boys a cup of hot tea. “Bit arrogan’, but not a bad kid… Sad to see what his father’d turn him inter…” 

“But why would Mr. Malfoy want Draco to avoid us?” Harry whispered. “I mean he and Mrs. Malfoy sent us presents last year and everything.” 

“Dunno,” Hagrid shrugged. “Maybe he don’t think he’s cool enough hangin’ round with you. Pride’s everythin’ for the Malfoys. And you got yerself some friends that he… well… thinks aren’ good enough fer Hogwarts… puttin’ it mildly…” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. He was sure that their friendship was strong enough after a year of challenges they all overcame together. But what did he know about friendship. He never had any friends before he came to Hogwarts. 

“Not only that,” Harry muttered, “but we also got Colin Creevey running after me everywhere I go.” 

“And you’re Professor Lockhart’s favourite student,” Michael added. 

"Professer Lockhart,” Hagrid grumbled, “Visited me this mornin’, thinkin’ he knows more about my job than I do... bangin' on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle." It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts' teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise. 

“Maybe he just wanted to help,” Michael shrugged. “You should have sent him off to find Cheshire…”

Hagrid laughed at that. “I think little Ginny Weasley’d have more luck findin’ yer missing cat in that forest.” 

Harry couldn’t help but laugh a little. 

“Also, he’d been sayin’ somethin’ about ye givin’ out signed photos, Harry,” Hagrid looked at him, “how come I ain’t got one?” 

“I have not been giving out signed photos," he said hotly. "If Lockhart's still spreading that around-” 

But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing. “I'm on'y jokin',” he said, patting Harry genially on the back and sending him face first into the table. “I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin'.” 

“Bet he didn't like that,” said Harry, sitting up and rubbing his chin. 

“Don' think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. “An' then I told him I’d never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle fudge, Michael?” 

Michael put his hand up, shaking his head. 

Harry could see that he was still thinking about what happened on the field. 

“Do you know much about Jonathan Crowe?” Harry suddenly asked. 

Hagrid looked up, as if trying to remember. 

“Oh yeh, the Crowes…” he nodded. “Always bin Gryffindors, tough nuts to crack, all of ‘em… heard a firs’ year named Victor Crowe get sorted into Gryffindor this year… why you askin’?” 

“N- no reason,” Harry quickly said, as Michael gave him a look. 

“Jonathan’s a brave young lad… perfect fer Gryffindor, I say. Seeker, an’ all. Always stands up fer what’s right.” 

Michael looked thoughtful, as Hagrid rose up. “Come an' see what I've bin growin'," 

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder. 

“Gettin' on well, aren't they?" said Hagrid happily. "Fer the Halloween feast... should be big enough by then.” 

“What've you been feeding them?” said Harry. 

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone. “Well, I've bin givin' them... you know... a bit o' help…” 

Harry noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin. Harry had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression that Hagrid's old school wand was concealed inside it. 

Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry had never found out why; any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.

“You used magic to grow them?” Michael wondered. 

Hagrid nodded, whispered “shh… not suppose’ ter do that,” and chucked. 

That’s when Harry saw a little girl some way away from the vegetable patch. She looked around, with awe, before pausing. Her eyes caught Harry’s. 

“Ah, Ginny Weasley,” Hagrid smiled. 

The red haired girl’s eyes looked like they couldn’t get any wider. 

“Bet she wan’ed ter take a look at famous Harry Potter, eh?” Hagrid gave her a bit of a wave. 

Michael nudged Harry, and Harry broke out of his stupor. He waved at Ginny.

Ginny lifted her hand up, as if to wave back, but forgot to do it. Next moment, she was dashing across the field away from them. 

“Bless…” Hagrid put a great big hand to his heart. “Really likes ye, she does. Maybe make an exception, Harry… write ‘er an autograph...” 

Harry laughed a little. “Maybe I will…” 

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only one bit of treacle fudge since dawn, he was keen to go back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle. 

The moment they stepped foot in the castle, they saw Professor Snape marching towards them. Harry had almost forgotten why, and assumed that they were going to be in deep trouble for something stupid. 

“Potter, Munroe,” he stopped in front of them, swaying a little, his expression was one of delight. “Your detentions… will be served this evening…” 

Harry sighed. Their detentions for their grandiose arrival at Hogwarts, of course. 

“Thought you got let off the hook?” Professor Snape sneered. 

The two of them remained silent. 

“You both shall be serving your detentions in the Forbidden Forest…” Snape drew out his words, as if he was savouring them. Harry felt hopeful. They’d get to spend more time with Hagrid again, and maybe even find Michael’s cat, Cheshire. 

“...with me…” 

Both of their faces turned pale. Harry swallowed. 

“Seven O’clock in front of the great hall. If you’re a mere minute late…” he gave a small sneer, “you’ll be staying the night… Oh… and, Potter… Professor Lockhart requested you to help him sign fanmail. Think of it as a bonus for… all the trouble that you’ll be finding yourself in this year.”

With that, he turned, his robes cutting through air so sharply that Harry thought it was enough to kill someone, and strode away. 

“What does that supposed to mean?” Harry said, feeling his stomach churn. 

“You don’t think he will try to kill you this year, Harry?” Michael muttered quietly, that the other barely heard him. 

“W- well… Dumbledore said that he felt like he paid off his debt to my father by saving my life…” 

“Let’s hope that means he won’t be taking it forcibly next time…” 

“I rather he did…” Harry looked away, “So I won’t have to help Lockhart sign his stupid fanmail…” 

Harry couldn’t eat. He had a few forks of his shepherd pie. “Do you think I can use this goblet to create a potion that can make me pass out for twenty-four hours?” 

“I read something about that goblet,” Michael said. “Apparently it can create small potions if you put ingredients inside with water. It only works for ones you can brew in one go, that don’t need any spells.”

“Sounds a bit like alchemy,” Harry muttered. “It can turn water into pumpkin juice, though… and it doesn’t need pumpkins.”

Michael shrugged. “I wouldn’t use it for potion making, Harry. Who knows what it’ll create.” 

“The dagger that the Malfoys sent you, did you find out if it does anything?” 

Michael shook his head. “No idea, Harry…” 

Harry suddenly remembered Draco and his father at that creepy shop in Knockturn Alley. Borgin and Burkes. Mr. Malfoy wanted to sell things that would make him look bad if the Ministry was to find out. Could it be items imbued with dark magic? 

“What if… they sent us these things just to get rid of them?” 

“Why would they send something incriminating to us when we know it’s from them and can tell on them if someone asks questions?” 

“Whisper whisper whisper,” came a voice from their right. It was Pansy Parkinson. “What are you two whispering about? Don’t tell me there’s another terrible plot at Hogwarts and you two are getting ready to save the day?” 

“Go away,” Harry muttered.

“Rumour has it that you’re serving detention in the Forbidden Forest. Hope you find your cat, by the way,” she glanced at Michael before walking off to where Draco and the others sat. Harry sighed, looking at Michael. He didn’t think detention could make someone so happy. 

As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry became more and more nervous. Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t sit still. “Do you think he’s alive Harry?” he muttered. “I… I think I’d rather find his corpse than nothing at all,” he admitted, though tears welled in his eyes just thinking about it. 

“I’m sure he’s fine… he might hear your voice or smell your presence and come find you himself.” 

“I hope…”

It was already nearly seven. Harry and Michael came fifteen minutes early, not wanting to risk angering Snape. 

Snape appeared around five to seven, pleased to see them there. 

“Follow me,” he said, making his way towards the castle entrance. 

They followed Snape outside, trying to keep up with his quick strides. 

“There’s something that we need to investigate,” Snape said sharply. 

Harry wondered what it could be. 

“So long as you keep close, you’ll be unharmed.” 

The sun has already almost set, orange and red hues decorating the skyline. As they neared the Forbidden Forest, the colder it began to get. 

Harry hoped that they’d have a run in with a centaur. Though he doubted Snape would like them very much. 

They followed the main path for the most part of their evening stroll, which was what Professor Snape had called it. Michael was looking around, jumping at every breaking twig and rustle of leaves, periodically calling out, “Cheshire!” quietly. 

“Be quiet,” Snape snapped, after several minutes of this. 

“M- my cat ran away-”

“That’s none of my problem,” he leered. “Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Rule breaking will cause… heart break…” 

Michael started shivering. Harry wasn’t sure if it was from the cold air, or anxiety. He, himself, was nowhere near a state of calm. He felt on edge, like at any moment he’d have to fend for himself. He didn’t feel this way with Hagrid in the forest. Not even with Draco and Fang. Right now, the scariest being in the Forbidden Forest was Professor Snape. 

“There…” Snape stopped. If Harry didn’t grab Michael’s arm, he’d have walked into him. 

Professor Snape mumbled an incantation, and the tip of his wand let off light. He leaned down on the trail, pointing his wand to the ground, as Harry and Michael looked around. They couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, though every small sound caused them to snap their heads up and freeze. 

“How strange…” Snape muttered on, “very… peculiar…” 

“What’s strange?” Harry asked, and then he wished he didn’t. 

Snape rose up like a corpse from a grave. His face was as pale as theirs in the moonlight. 

“Why don’t you see for yourselves…”

Harry and Michael squinted at the ground. Michael gasped a little. 

There was a uniform line of spiders making their way across the side of the path, one after the other. 

“What does this mean?” Harry’s eyes were wide. 

“No idea…” Snape drawled. 

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound coming from the foliage. 

They all snapped their heads to where it was coming from. 

“Stay back, both of you,” Snape stepped in front of them, pointing his wand towards it. 

A larger, creepier spider crawled out of the yellowing leaves, it stopped in its tracks; Michael let out a quiet gasp, and it started sprinting towards them. 

Snape pulled back his wand, ready to fire a spell at it, before something came out of the darkness and attacked the spider viciously, ripping its head off. 

Michael gasped, “Cheshire…” he almost dropped to the floor. 

Snape lowered his wand. “Is that your cat, Munroe?” 

Michael nodded, sinking to his knees and opening his arms out. 

Cheshire ran towards him, meowing loudly, jumping into his arms.

One minute he was a ferocious killer, the next, an adorable pet. 

Harry was still trying to process what just happened. A massive spider almost attacked them… and Cheshire the cat bit its head off. 

“Let’s head back to the school,” Snape finally said, picking up the corpse of the giant spider. From leg to leg, it was as wide as Snape was. 

Harry knew he’d be having even more nightmares. 

Michael was so happy when he returned to the common room, Cheshire in his arms. Josh was doing homework on the table by the fire. He turned to look at them when they came in.

“I hope Snape didn’t torture you too badly…” he saw how happy Michael was. “You actually found your cat?” 

Michael nodded. “It saved us from a massive spider. This was by far the best detention we’ve ever had…” 

“You’ve…” corrected Harry. He, himself, has never been so terrified. 

“Your cat did what?” Josh looked dumbfounded. “You realize normal cats would have died… Don’t tell me you have a kneazle…” 

“A kneazle?” Harry raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s a magical sort of cat. Very smart… and can get sort of aggressive too.” 

“Cheshire can’t be,” Michael said, “I found him when he was just a kitten… he was just a normal kitten…” 

“Maybe a half-kneazle?” Josh looked at Harry, “that’s if one of their parents is a kneazle and one’s a normal cat. They can interbreed… so they’re kind of like half-bloods.” 

“I’m going to bed,” Harry said suddenly. They had been walking around the forest for at least two hours. It’s amazing how much energy it takes to feel scared for two hours straight. He didn’t have the strength left in him to think about whatever kneazles were. 

When they reached their dormitory, Harry fell into bed almost immediately, after changing into his pyjamas. Michael was trying to feed Cheshire but he didn’t seem to be that hungry. 

“Probably caught plenty of prey in the woods...” Harry muttered. “If he can bite a giant spider’s head off like that...” 

“Hmm…” Michael answered. He got in bed too, Cheshire getting cosy on his belly, and fell asleep almost instantly. 

Harry looked up at the ceiling, watching the green glow from the windows dancing around. His suffering wasn’t over just yet… He still had detention with Lockhart. 

* * *

The next morning, they found Ron waddling sleepily towards the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry picked up his speed as not to miss him. 

“I had my detention with Filch,” Ron complained. “He made me hand polish all the trophies in the trophy room… Without using magic! I couldn’t go until I was finished like two a.m. into the night… He made me polish T. M. Riddle’s trophy twice after I belched slugs all over it!” Ron looked distraught. “This stupid wand!” 

“Want to swap,” Harry offered, “I have to go sign fanmail with Lockhart.” 

“I’d rather hang out with Filch, thanks,” Ron shook his head. 

They went to their tables to eat breakfast. Draco’s friends were eyeing them, as if they hadn’t expected them to arrive whole from last night. 

The morning dragged on miserably. 

At least Michael was happy again. He was reading an excerpt from “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them” about Kneazles. 

Sunday afternoon, though, seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. 

He gritted his teeth and knocked. The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him. “Ah, here's the scallywag!” he said. Harry was reminded of Cedric. They must have spent a lot of time together…

“Come in, Harry, come in…” 

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry, as though this was a huge treat. “This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her... huge fan of mine.” 

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then he caught a phrase like, “Fame's a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that.” 

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. 

It must be nearly time to leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time... 

And then he heard something... something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans. 

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

“Come... come to me... Let me rip you... Let me tear you... Let me kill you…” 

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street. “What?” he said loudly. 

“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top of the bestseller list! Broke all records!” 

“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice!” 

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?” 

“That- that voice that said- ...didn't you hear it?” 

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment. “What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy? Great Scott, look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! Id never have believed it... the time's flown, hasn't it?” 

Harry didn't answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't expect a treat like this every time he got detention. 

Feeling dazed, Harry left.

When Harry made it to the common room, he rushed past Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode. 

“Oy, Potter. Had fun with Lockhart? Heard you had to help him sign fanmail!” 

Harry ignored her. He ran down the stairs, almost tripping several times, and headed to the second year Dormitory. 

“Michael,” he wheezed. “You wouldn’t believe what I heard…”

He spotted Michael sitting on the floor by his bed, brushing Cheshire’s fur with an old hairbrush. 

“There was this voice… this creepy voice…”

“What voice, Harry?” Michael asked, his tone much lighter than his. “I’d hear voices too if I was forced to spend four hours signing letters.” 

“No… I hadn’t imagined it. I swear…” 

Michael looked at him. “What did the voice say?”

“Something about tearing… and killing… and the funny thing is, Lockhart hadn’t heard anything.” 

“You must be imagining it, Harry…”

“I’m not!” Harry sat on his bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “I heard it so clearly. I’m not going mad.” 

“You realize hearing voices isn’t normal, right?” Michael said, “even in the magic world… don’t go around telling people you’re hearing things, okay.” 

Harry could tell Michael meant well when he said it, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was going crazy. Maybe he was going mad? Maybe something happened in the Forbidden Forest? 

He knew for sure that he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. 

* * *

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. 

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. 

Ginny Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor Prefect, in the great hall. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire. 

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. 

Cedric Munroe's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to the dungeons, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud.

On his way down the marble staircase, he spotted a floating rope and jumped to skip a step. Peeves was probably at it again, trying to trick unsuspecting first years. 

“Potty wee Potter!” he heard the Poltergeist call. 

“What do you want?” Harry grumbled. He was tired and longed for nothing more than to be out of these robes and in bed. 

As he strode across the hallway towards his dormitory, Peeves floated alongside him. “Can you believe it, it’s almost Nearly Headless Nick’s death-day party!” 

“Death-day party?” Harry looked baffled. Ghosts celebrated their deaths?

“Aha… Bloody Baron was invited but he wouldn’t let me cooome… says I’ll cause a ruckus… not wrong, of course. Not wrong…” 

“Good for you,” Harry said. He reached the Slytherin door and said, “Pure-blood.” 

“It’s going to be so booooring anyway…” Peeves complained. 

Harry ignored him as the door slowly slid open.

“Oh nooo something’s wicked this way comes… I think you’ve got yourself another detention, Potter!” 

Before he could enter his dormitory, he stopped, confused. 

Mr. Filch was making his way down the corridor. He was in a foul mood. “Potter!”

“Toodles…” Peeves laughed, disappearing into thin air. 

As Filch appeared into the light, Harry saw that he was wearing a scarf. His nose was a bright shade of purple. 

“What d’you think you’re doing?” he snapped. 

“I was just-” Harry began. 

“You know how long it takes me to clean these floors, Potter? And you think you can come prancing in leaving mud everywhere, do you?”

“I just-” Harry began again, but there was no use in arguing. 

“This way, Potter,” Filch growled, his cat, Mrs. Norris, running alongside him. 

With an exhausted sigh, Harry followed Filch down the Dungeon corridor. 

Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. 

A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling. 

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment. 

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies... frog brains... rat intestines... I've had enough of it... make an example... where's the form... yes…”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot. “Name... Harry Potter. Crime…” 

“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry. 

“It's only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it's an extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “Crime... befouling the castle... suggested sentence…” Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry who waited with bated breath for his sentence to fall. 

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil lamp rattle. 

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. “I'll have you this time, I'll have you!” And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.

Harry sighed with relief. He couldn’t help but feel grateful for Peeves, even if he hated him. But why would he cause havoc knowing Harry was being punished? He thought he’d enjoy seeing that very much. 

Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. 

With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read: “Kwikspell A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic.”

Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said: 

“Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? There is an answer! Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method! Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: “I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!” 

“Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says: “My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!”” 

Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a proper wizard? Harry was just reading “Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back. 

Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened. 

Filch was looking triumphant. “That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. “We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet…”

His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Harry realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started. 

Filch's pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of fury. 

Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer. “Have you... did you read?” he sputtered.

“No,” Harry lied quickly. Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together. “If I thought you'd read my private... not that it's mine... for a friend... be that as it may... however…” 

Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn't help. 

“Very well, go... and don't breathe a word... not that- however, if you didn't read... go now, I have to write up Peeves' report... go!” 

Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.

“Potty wee Potter!” he was stopped by an invisible voice. Peeves appeared out of thin air once more, and Harry breathed out a sigh. 

“Did it work?” Peeves grinned. 

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. It felt weird saying that to Peeves out of all people. 

“Now you owe me one, Potter…” he grinned. 

“What do you want?” Harry groaned. 

“I’ll think about it…” Peeves said, with a mischievous sort of smile. 

Harry didn’t really want to know right now anyway. All he wanted to do was to fall into bed and pass out for a few precious hours. 

He returned to his common room, and went down to his dormitory, peeling off the wet layers of clothes and putting his pyjamas on. He fell straight into bed and almost immediately drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

The next morning, Harry and Michael made their way up to breakfast. Harry told Michael what happened last night, and what he found on Filch’s desk. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Michael said. “No wonder he doesn’t use magic to do his job… it’s because he can’t.”

“He can’t?” Harry muttered. 

“I mean, maybe he’s an incompetent wizard like Neville Longbottom or something… but when you think about it, we never saw him use magic, like ever.” 

“What does that mean?” Harry’s eyes widened. “Is he a Muggle?”

“A squib,” Michael said.

“A squib?”

“Squibs are born to magical families, but have no magical powers. It’s like the opposite of a wizard being born to Muggles, if you get what I mean.” 

“Oh,” Harry couldn’t help but snigger, “that makes a lot of sense. He was trying to say that he had it for a friend or something, but we know Filch hasn’t got those.” 

They both laughed between themselves, leaving the dungeons. 

Good job they looked where they were going, though, because within minutes, Peeves appeared in front of them. 

“Pooootty…” Peeves stretched his arms out, “I know what you can do for me~” he sang. 

“What?” Harry suddenly remembered that he owed him, and had a twist of an uneasy feeling in his stomach. What would Peeves have him do?

Peeves took out a pink envelope. He was sniggering so hard that he was struggling to speak. “I- I heard… I heard Moaning Myrtle’s going to Nick’s death day party…” he tried to contain his laughter enough to speak. “C- can you go there and give this to her…”

Harry took the envelope. 

“Moaning Myrtle is that ghost from the out of order girls’ barthoom right?” Michael tilted his head. “Apparently she causes floodings with all her tantrums so they had to close it down.” 

“Yes,” Peeves had his hand over his stomach, “O- Once you’re done… please tell me her reaction…” 

“Okay,” Harry said. Seemed easy enough. He wondered what was in the letter. 

Turns out, Nearly Headless Nick’s death day party was on the same day as the Halloween Feast. Harry promised Michael they’d be quick, and head straight down to the great hall not to miss anything. 

“Why would someone want to celebrate their own death?” Josh asked at the Slytherin table.

“It sounds miserable,” a boy opposite them muttered. 

By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the deathday party to deliver that letter for Peeves. 

The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment. 

“A deal is a deal,” Michael reminded Harry, “as annoying as it is, you do owe Peeves for saving you from Mr. Filch.” 

So at seven o'clock, the two of them walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. 

The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard. “Is that supposed to be music?” He whispered. 

They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes. 

“Have you two come to my death day party?” he said mournfully. Before either of them could reply, he waved them toward him, “Welcome, welcome... so pleased you chose to come…” 

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside. It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer. “Right, so we just go in quickly, deliver the letter, wait for her reaction and then get out?” Harry looked at Michael. 

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Michael quietly, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. 

They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. 

Harry wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

“Got the letter?” Michael mumbled. 

Harry took out the pink envelope from his robes. Only now did he notice a little heart on it. 

“Aww, do you think Peeves has a crush on Myrtle?” Harry grinned.

Michael shook his head, “I doubt it,” though he couldn’t contain his small laugh. 

“Did someone say my name?” a wailing voice rang through their ears, as they snapped around and looked at the ghost of Moaning Myrtle herself. 

“N- no…” Harry lied. He understood what Michael meant; she was hideous. 

“Lies!” she snarled, “you were laughing behind my back, weren’t you? Laughing at ugly, pathetic Myrtle…”

“T- that’s not true,” Michael quickly said, “we were just… talking about how nice you looked…”

“Ha ha ha… so funny…” Myrtle said dreadfully. “I’m not stupid enough to know that nobody would ever think that of me…”

“I think someone does…” Harry muttered. Myrtle stared at him, as if waiting for an explanation. He looked at the letter in his hand, and then presented it to her. “It’s from Peeves…” 

Myrtle took the letter. Her scowl turned into a bit of a blush. “Oh, it is?” she said, much more softly. Opening the letter, she began to read…

Harry and Michael watched in anticipation. Harry had no idea ghosts could pick up letters. Maybe it was enchanted. 

Myrtle’s smile faded from her face as she kept on reading. Eventually, she threw the letter and wailed loudly, floating off quickly towards the exit. 

Harry picked up the letter from a stinky platter of mouldy cheese. 

“Dear Myrtle… your eyes are as beautiful as a slugs offspring, and your smile reminds me of a Mandrake. Your hair looks like Filch’s most ruggiest of mops, and the ugliest girl in the school couldn’t compare to your horridness. When I look at you, I wish that ghosts could die twice. Lots of love, yours truly, Peeves…” there was a heart at the bottom. 

Harry couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. 

“I feel bad for her,” Michael said, but he was trying not to smile. 

What was it about Myrtle that made you want to bully her? 

As they made their way back towards the exit, pinching their noses whilst going past a rotting buffet of food, they were stopped by Nearly Headless Nick. 

“Enjoying yourselves?” 

“Oh, yes,” they lied. 

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent… though to my dismay they wouldn’t let me join the Headless Hunt…” 

‘he looked as sad as anyone would on their… death day…’ Harry thought. 

“Why not?” Michael asked curiously. 

“Because my head doesn’t come off all the way…” he sighed depressingly. 

“A- anyway it was nice to meet you and you have a very… haunting and sad party…”

“Why thank you,” Nick gave a bit of a smile. 

“B- but we really should be…”

Just then a group of ghost horses and headless riders burst through the entrance door ceremoniously. Harry caught Nick’s dismayed look, before being pulled out by his robe by his best friend. 

“It’s too cold,” Michael whispered, as they made their way back out of the dungeon. 

“And I’m hungry,” Harry said, not feeling very positive either. 

“Do you reckon we’d make it to the feast in time?” 

“Maybe we’ll make it in time for dessert,” Michael smiled, as they raced up the staircase. “I always get full too easy, that there’s never enough room for dessert.” 

Harry could think about nothing else until that same voice had stopped him. 

He heard it again…

“Rip… tear… kill…” 

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart's office. 

He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway. 

“Harry, what are you-?” 

“It's that voice again... shut up a minute…” 

“...soo hungry... for so long…” 

“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Michael froze, watching him. 

“...kill... time to kill…” 

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away... moving upward. 

A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn't matter? 

“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run up the stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Michael trying to keep up behind him. “Harry, what are we-” 

“SHH!”

Harry strained his ears. 

Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: “...I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD!” 

His stomach lurched. “It's going to kill someone!” he shouted, and ignoring Michael’s bewildered expression, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps.

Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Michael running after him breathlessly, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage. “Harry, what’s going on?” Michael tried to catch his breath. “I couldn't hear anything…” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “look…”

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. 

Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches: 

“The chamber of secrets has been opened. enemies of the heir, beware.” 

“What's that...?” Michael muttered, a slight quiver in his voice. 

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped. There was a large puddle of water on the floor; Michael grabbed him, and they inched toward the message together, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. Both of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash…

Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. Michael squealed, clasping his hands to his mouth. 

She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they didn't move. Then Michael said, “w- we should go…” 

“Shouldn't we try and help?” Harry began awkwardly. 

“Oh… we do not want to be found here…” Michael stepped away, but it was too late. 

A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. 

From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. 

Harry and Michael stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight. 

Then someone stated coldly through the quiet. “Enemies of the Heir, beware... You'll be next, Mudbloods....” 

It was Draco. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his face still and expressionless. Though Harry didn’t miss it; there was a glint of fire in his eyes. 


	7. Mrs. Norris

“What's going on here? What's going on?” Attracted no doubt by Draco’s loud declaration, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. 

Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror. “My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?” he shrieked. And his popping eyes fell on Harry. “You!” he screeched. “You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll-” 

“Argus!” Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry and Michael and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket. 

“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Munroe.” 

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. “My office is nearest, Headmaster. Just upstairs... please feel free~” 

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore. 

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape. 

As they entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. 

The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. 

Dumbledore lay Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. 

Harry and Michael exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. 

The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. 

Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. 

Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. 

And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions. “It was definitely a curse that killed her, probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her…”

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. 

Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he felt for himself If Dumbledore believed Filch, he would be expelled for sure.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

“I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…” 

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net. 

At last Dumbledore straightened up. “She's not dead, Argus,” he said softly. 

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented. 

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. “But why's she all... all stiff and frozen?” 

“She has been petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say…” 

“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry. 

“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced-” 

“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found... in my office... he knows I'm a... I'm a…” Filch's face worked horribly. “He knows I'm a Squib!” he finished.

“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “I didn’t even know what a Squib was until-” 

Michael elbowed him, cutting him off.

“See…” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell letter! Then found out what I was and- and-” 

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and Harry's sense of foreboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good. “Potter and his friend may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth.

Harry was surprised. Did Snape just defend him?

“Potter and his friend are sort of famous around the school for being… rather liberal Slytherins.” 

“I bet that’s a ruse!” Filch barked. “I’m tellin’ you… it was Potter and his sidekick… I demand that they be punished at once! Expelled! Beheaded!”

“Now now, Mr. Filch… shouldn’t we wait for proper evidence to arise?” 

“They were snooping around in the upstairs corridor, they hadn’t even been at the Halloween Feast-” Filch was listing off everything he could think of. “It all adds up!”

Harry and Michael quickly launched into an explanation about the death day party, and how they had hundreds of ghosts to back their story up. 

“Then why didn’t you return to the feast? Why go upstairs?” Professor McGonagall suddenly chimed in. 

Harry didn’t know what to say to defend himself. He couldn’t tell them about the voices.

“Because… Because…” 

“I left my quill in the library,” Michael quickly said. 

“Rubbish…” Filch growled. “Sir…” he turned to Dumbledore, “Professor... It’s clear that these two are lying through their teeth.”

“And yet, we have no evidence, do we?” Snape glanced at Dumbledore. 

Harry couldn’t wrap his head around why he could possibly be defending him. Surely he wasn’t that great of a seeker… 

“My cat has been petrified!” Filch suddenly shrieked again, his eyes popping. “I want to see some punishment!”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.” 

“I'll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep!” 

“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.” 

There was a very awkward pause. 

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry and Michael. 

They went as quickly as they could without actually running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart's office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted at his friend's darkened face.

“Maybe I should have told them about the voices-”

“Harry, no…” Michael muttered. “They would have suspected you even more. I told you, it’s not normal to hear voices… they’d think you’re insane…” 

“But… you do believe me, don’t you?” Harry whispered.

“Of course. I just…” Michael lowered his voice, “don’t say a word to anyone about this, Harry.” 

Harry nodded, letting out a sigh. “What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened... What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know… though it sounds familiar. I can’t remember where I heard about it, though.” 

A clock chimed somewhere. 

“Midnight,” said Harry. “We'd better get to bed before Filch comes along and tries to frame us for something else.” 

* * *

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. 

When Filch wasn't guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking redeyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like “breathing loudly” and “looking happy.”

Michael was probably the only student in their year who felt bad for Mrs. Norris. They heard the Weasley twins muttering between themselves about how many times the cat caught them and snitched to Filch, and now they could get up to all sorts of trouble with her gone. 

“It would have been better if Filch was petrified instead,” Michael said, to Harry’s shock. “I’m sure Mrs. Norris would have been a great cat if it weren’t for him.” 

Whenever Harry and Michael spoke to Ron, he was complaining about how much time Hermione was spending at the library. She wouldn’t even hang out with him and their friends for lunch anymore. 

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs to meet Michael in the library, and saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction.

When he finally reached the library, he spotted Michael in the corner doing History of Magic homework. On the same table, Hermione had about ten different books open all at once, pointing and looking at a different one each time, as if trying to put together pieces of a puzzle. 

Harry told Michael about how Justin Finch-Fletchley ran away from him.

“I thought you found him a little too chatty, Harry… You’d probably never show up to the library if he started talking to you.” 

Hermione quickly stood up, and did another round of pacing up and down the aisles of bookshelves. “I can’t believe it…” she muttered to herself. 

“Believe what?” Harry asked. 

“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out,” she said, sitting back down with a sigh. “And there's a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn't left my copy at home, but I couldn't fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. 

Harry looked confused. “Why would you want to read that?”

“Why d’you think? It probably contains the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.” 

“The what?” Harry felt dumb. He felt like all year he’d just been asking what everything was. 

“I can’t remember,” Hermione sighed. 

“It’s weird, I can’t either,” Michael said.

The bell rang. Harry and Michael made their way to their next lesson. 

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn't noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the staff room fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since. 

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. 

He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened that had never happened before. Pansy Parkinson put up her hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed. 

“Miss- er-?” 

“Parkinson... could you tell us about the Chamber of Secrets?” said Pansy in a clear voice.

Harry noticed Draco sitting on her left, sneering. 

The Hufflepuffs looked with sudden hushed intrigue, snapping out of their bored trances. 

Slytherins looked like Christmas came early. 

Harry and Michael leaned forward to listen. 

Professor Binns blinked. 

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, wheezy voice. “I deal with facts, Miss Parkinson, not myths and legends.” 

He cleared his throat with a small noise like chalk against the blackboard and continued, “In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers…” He stuttered to a halt. 

Draco’s hand was erect, his expression haughty. 

“Mr. Maloy?”

“It’s Malfoy, sir,” Draco stated disdainfully, “there must be some truth to a legend, no?” he spoke like he already knew the answer. 

Professor Binns was looking at him in such amazement, Harry was sure no student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead. 

“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could argue that, I suppose.” 

He peered at Draco as though he had never seen a student properly before. 

“However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale-” But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns's every word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely thrown off by such an unusual show of interest.

“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see... the Chamber of Secrets... 

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago; the precise date is uncertain; by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.”

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued. 

“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school.”

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise. He hadn’t noticed the smug faces Slytherins had been wearing his whole talk. 

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. 

“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic.” 

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn't the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns's classes. There was unease from the Hufflepuffs, and firey intrigue from the Slytherins, as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.

“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.”

Michael suddenly raised his hand up. Harry hadn’t noticed until Professor Binns pointed at him. “Yes, Miss Weasley?” 

Michael went bright red. They heard pansy snorting with laughter from a few tables down, “M- Munroe, sir… and I’m… I’m a boy… ahem… um… Y-you speak of a horror within… what do you mean by that?” 

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Munroe…” Professor Binn’s chuckled dryly, “And that is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control.”

The Hufflepuffs exchanged nervous looks. 

“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and no monster.”

“But, sir,” said Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff, “if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin's true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?”

“Nonsense, O'Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven't found the thing-” 

“But, Professor,” piped up another Hufflepuff girl, “you'd probably have to use Dark Magic to open it-”

“Just because a wizard doesn't use Dark Magic doesn't mean he can't, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore-” 

“But maybe you've got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn't-” began a boy from Harry’s left, but Professor Binns had had enough. 

“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!”

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor.

“Do you think this heir is from Slytherin, Harry?” Michael wondered, as they walked towards the dungeons to drop their bags off before dinner. “I mean, theoretically they could be from any house but…”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I don’t want to believe it, but don’t you think Draco is acting rather suspicious?”

“It can’t be him,” Michael quickly said. “I’m sure it’s an older student that has more experience…”

He could see that Michael was trying to convince himself more than Harry. Harry didn’t want to believe it either. 

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevy went past. “Hiya, Harry!” 

“Hello, Colin,” said Harry automatically. 

“Harry- Harry- a boy in my class has been saying you're-” 

But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall; they heard him squeak, “See you, Harry!” and he was gone. 

“What's a boy in his class saying about you?” Michael muttered.

“That I'm Slytherin's heir, I expect,” said Harry, his stomach dropping another inch or so as he suddenly remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run away from him at lunchtime.

“People believe everything they hear,” Michael said reassuringly, as the crowd thinned and they were able to get down into the dungeons. 

“Do you think there is such a thing as the Chamber of Secrets?” Harry asked. “After all it could just be a ploy used to scare everyone…” 

“I don’t know,” Michael admitted. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.” 

“What if whatever attacked Mrs. Norris isn’t human?” Harry suddenly brought up, as they made their way along the dark corridor. “Even Dumbledore couldn’t heal her.” 

* * *

The next day they made their way towards their first class. They had left breakfast a little early so they could look around the corridor where Mrs. Norris was petrified. 

They stopped when they got there. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message “The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened.” 

“That's where Mr. Filch has been keeping guard,” Michael muttered. 

They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted. 

“Can't hurt to have a poke around,” said Harry, dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching for clues. “Scorch marks!” he said. “Here... and here…”

“Harry, come look at this,” Michael said. 

Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Michael was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.

“It’s just like those spiders in the Forbidden Forest…” Michael whispered. “They’re acting… strange.” 

“Remember the water on the floor,” Harry quickly said. “Someone’s mopped it up, but… where did it come from in the first place?” 

Michael nodded, looking to where it had been. “It was seeping through this door,” he said, pointing. 

Harry approached it, taking the brass handle.

“I don’t think we should-” Michael said. 

“Why not?” Harry muttered.

“It’s the girls’ bathroom… Moaning Myrtle lives in there.”

“Oh,” Harry looked back to the door. “Wait… maybe she has seen something…” 

Ignoring the large “OUT OF ORDER” sign, he opened the door.

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.

Both of them crept slowly, looking into every stall. They finally spotted Moaning Myrtle in the very last one, floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin.

“This is a girls' bathroom,” she said, eyeing them suspiciously. “You’re not girls…” she raised her eyebrow at Michael, “though I’m not so sure about you~”

“N- no… we’re not…” Michael quickly said, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “W- we just thought… we’d apologise…” he looked at Harry, “for the letter… Peeves wanted us to give it to you but we didn’t know what was in it…”

“Lies!” she suddenly screeched. “You knew! You wanted to make fun of me… How could you not… who would send a love letter to poor, ugly, moping Myrtle…” she began sobbing, wiping her ghostly tears with the sleeve of her robes. 

“N- no, that’s not it at all…” Harry mumbled quickly, looking at Michael, lost for words. 

“Ask her if she saw anything,” Michael whispered to Harry, as her sobs quieted down. 

“What are you whispering?” she suddenly enquired. 

“N- nothing…” Harry quickly said. “We just wanted to ask-”

“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!” said Myrtle, in a voice choked with tears. “I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead…”

“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Michael. “Harry only-”

“No one wants to upset me! That's a good one!” howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along ruining my death!” 

“We wanted to ask you if you've seen anything strange,” said Michael quickly. “Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.” 

“So you suspect me now, too, do you? Think she was petrified by my ugliness?” she hissed. 

“N- no… we just wanted to ask if you seen anyone near here that night?” said Harry hopefully. 

“I wasn't paying attention,” said Myrtle dramatically. “Peeves upset me again and I came in here and tried to kill myself... then, of course, I remembered that I'm already dead!” 

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight, although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.

Harry and Michael stared in shock. They slowly backed away from the cubicle. Harry wiped his glasses with his sleeves. 

“What are you two doing here?” came a sudden voice from the door. 

It was Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor Prefect. 

Now they were in trouble. 

“This is a girls’ bathroom…”

“Michael was being bullied in the boys’ bathroom,” Harry quickly said without thinking. Michael elbowed him. 

“Did you not see the out of order sign? That’s 10 points from Slytherin. Now run along to your lessons before you’re late.” He fiddled with his prefect badge, looking amped up, and strode out of the bathroom quickly. 

“Bullied in the boys’ bathroom?” Michael muttered, shaking his head. 

“It’s the first thing I could think of,” Harry shrugged. “You do look like a girl…” 

“Shut up…”

They made their way out of the bathroom and grabbed their bags. 

That lunch, after eating, they went back to the library to do their homework. Hermione Granger was there once again, puzzling over a book. 

Harry and Michael sat at her table, opposite her, taking out their Charms homework and opening up “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2”.

“So, Moaning Myrtle didn’t see anything… and the water was probably from her having another breakdown,” Michael muttered. 

“I still can’t help but feel like it was Draco,” Harry muttered back. “He seemed well pleased, plus we know he hates Muggle-borns.” 

“But why would he do something like this,” Michael sighed. He held his quill above the parchment, as if trying to remember what he was going to write. 

“What if his father set him up for it? What if the Malfoys are somehow related to Salazar Slytherin? They might’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets handed down through generations. And now that the Ministry is on Mr. Malfoy, maybe he decided to give it to his son.”

“But Draco said that he didn’t want Muggle-borns dead, he just wanted them out of Hogwarts…” 

“Maybe he changed his mind. His father must have something to do with this…”

They hadn’t noticed at first, but Hermione Granger was listening in on their conversation. 

“How do we prove it though? He’s not going to tell us anything.” 

“There might be a way,” Hermione suddenly said, looking around her as if to check no one was listening in. 

Harry looked at her, surprised. He hadn’t realized they were talking loud enough for her to hear. 

“We might be able to ask him a couple of questions, if he doesn’t realize that it’s us…”

Harry was about to say something in protest; he didn’t get why Hermione Granger out of all people would want in on their rule breaking schemes. 

Michael was quick to say, “how can we do that?”

“It would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect…”

Harry and Michael stared at her, confused. Hermione Granger breaking rules?

“But… if we can pull this off, you two can get the answers you’re looking for.”

“Why would you want to help us?” Harry asked. He had barely spoken to Hermione through all his time at Hogwarts. 

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m Muggle-born. And as long as the heir of Slytherin is running around petrifying Muggle-borns, I’m not safe. I’ve been trying to do my own research but I can’t seem to find anything useful. I’m not going to pass up on the chance of finding out who their heir of Slytherin is for myself,” she said, matter-of-factly. 

“Okay,” Harry said in a higher tone, as if he doubted his own answer. “But… what is it that you want to do that’s so dangerous?”

“Brew a Polyjuice potion,” Hermione stated. 

“Poly-what?”

“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago…” 

“Potions isn’t our strongest subject,” Harry muttered. 

“What you mean to say is that you weren’t listening,” Hermione sighed impatiently. “It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins who are closest to Malfoy. No one would know it was us. He would probably tell us anything.”

“That’s… kind of smart,” Harry admitted. There’d be no chance of Draco talking to him and Michael about the weather, let alone his plot to petrify Muggle-borns. 

“You two are Slytherins, so you know the password. There wouldn’t be any trouble getting into the common room. We just need to pick a few people that he’s closest to.”

“Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson,” Harry said. 

Hermione nodded. 

“Wait, what if we end up stuck looking like them forever?” Michael shuddered. 

“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called Moste Potente Potions and it's bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library.” 

There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of permission from a teacher.

“Wouldn’t it look suspicious if we asked a teacher for that book?” Michael chimed in. "If we

weren't going to try and make one of the potions.”

“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance…” 

“Do you think there’s a teacher that would fall for that?” Michael asked. 

“They'd have to be really stupid” Harry muttered. 


	8. The Rogue Bludger

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books to them. 

One fine morning he brought in Cedric and his theatre club to perform one of his books. It was the performance Cedric had been babbling about at the start of term. They reenacted Voyages with Vampires. 

Cedric was Lockhart, and Raphael was the vampire. Victoria was the lady that needed saving. 

Lockhart praised Cedric for the accurate portrayal, clapping the loudest once it was through. The class clapped too, much slower and quieter than the show’s director. 

Harry thought that it was kind of stupid. Michael hid his face, embarrassed to share Cedric’s last name. 

Other lessons involved Cedric too, but this time, Lockhart would drag Harry onto stage to help them recreate other scenes from his books. Cedric would force Michael to play the damsel in distress that he would end up rescuing. This earned them both the pleasure of being laughed at by Pansy Parkinson and her friends whenever they passed in the hallways.

Harry was in for a rougher performance one lesson, when Cedric was absent. Lockhart was pinning him down to the floor. 

“Nice loud howl, Harry… exactly... and then, if you'll believe it, I pounced! ...Like this... slammed him to the floor... thus with one hand, I managed to hold him down… with my other, I put my wand to his throat… I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm... he let out a piteous moan... go on, Harry... higher than that... good... the fur vanished! The fangs shrank! And he turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective... and another village will remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.” 

The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet. 

Harry was as red as Michael’s hair, as the Slytherins howled mockingly, laughing their heads off. Even the Gryffindors were sniggering. 

"Homework... compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!" Lockhart declared. 

The class began to leave. 

Harry returned to the back of the room, where Michael and Hermione were waiting. 

“Ready?” Harry muttered. 

“Wait till everyone's gone,” said Hermione nervously. 

“All right…” She approached Lockhart's desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand, Harry and Michael right behind her.

“Er... Professor Lockhart?” Hermione stammered. “I wanted to- to get this book out of the library. Just for background reading.” She held out the piece of paper, her hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is, it's in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to sign for it... I'm sure it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about slow-acting venoms”

“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart, taking the note from Hermione and smiling widely at her. “Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer…”

“Well, I'm sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock quill. “Yes, nice, isn't it?” he said. “I usually save it for book-signings.”

He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to Hermione. 

“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the note with fumbling fingers and slipped it into her bag. “Tomorrow's the first Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Slytherin against Gryffindor, is it not? I hear you're a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private training, don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able players…” 

Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then hurried off after Michael and Hermione.

“I don't believe it,” he said as the three of them examined the signature on the note. “He didn't even look at the book we wanted.” 

“I don’t think he cares,” Michael said. 

“Well, I think he’s a bit stupid,” Harry laughed a little, as they descended some steps. 

“He’s not stupid!” Hermione said, “he just knows how hard I work and trusts me…” 

“More like because you remember every detail in his books,” Harry muttered. 

They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed vulture. 

“Moste Potente Potions?” she repeated suspiciously, trying to take the note from Hermione; but Hermione wouldn't let go. “I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said breathlessly. 

“Oh, come on,” said Harry, “We'll get you another autograph. Lockhart'll sign anything if it stands still long enough.” 

Hermione finally let go, and Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test. She stalked away between the lofty shelves and returned several minutes later carrying a large and moldy-looking book. 

Hermione put it carefully into her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty.

Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle's out-of-order bathroom once again. Hermione pointed out that it was the last place anyone in their right minds would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy. She said she had been here several times before, to Harry’s and Michael’s surprise, but never told them what she was up to. 

Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but they were ignoring her, and she them.

Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and the three of them bent over the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects almost too gruesome to think about, and there were some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a man who seemed to have been turned inside out and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of her head.

“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the page headed “The Polyjuice Potion”. It was decorated with drawings of people halfway through transforming into other people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces.

“This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen,” said Hermione as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she murmured, running her finger down the list of ingredients. “Well, they're easy enough, they're in the student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves... Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn... don't know where we're going to get that... shredded skin of a boomslang. That'll be tricky, too and of course a bit of whoever we want to change into.”

“That doesn’t sound very pleasant…” Harry scrunched up his nose. “Do we have to chop off their fingers?”

Hermione ignored him.

“We don't have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those bits last…”

“Shredded skin of a boomslang? Isn’t that only in Snape’s private stores? This is a bad idea, we’re already one mistake away from being expelled,” Michael whispered. 

Hermione shut the book with a snap. “Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she said. There were bright pink patches on her cheeks and her eyes were brighter than usual. “I don't want to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in!”

“N- no it’s fine, we’ll do it,” Harry said quickly. Hermione made him nervous. If it were pure-bloods being petryfied he’d think that she was the one doing it. 

“How long will it take to make?” said Michael as Hermione, looking happier, opened the book again.

“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty-one days... I'd say it'd be ready in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients.” 

“A month?” said Harry. “The heir of Slytherin could have attacked half the Muggle-borns in the school by then…” 

But Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he added swiftly, “But it's the best plan we've got. We- l- lets do it....” 

When Michael and Harry made their way back to their common room, Harry looked rather uncomfortable. “Hermione kind of scares me,” he said. “It’s like she’s about to turn you into a cockroach for doing or saying the wrong thing.” 

“I think she’s just really worried… who can blame her though,” Michael shrugged, brushing his long strands of hair from his face. 

“I just hope that everything goes to plan. I don’t want to believe Draco is capable of this… but if he is we have to know.”

* * *

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Cedric would do to him if Slytherin lost. Especially with their brand new speedy Nimbus 2001s. There were no excuses. He had never wanted to win so badly. After half an hour of lying there with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and went up to breakfast early, where he found the rest of the Slytherin team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking uptight and not speaking much. 

As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. 

Michael found Harry and wished him luck, but was soon shoved out of the locker room by Cedric, who tutted disappointingly at him. 

The team pulled on their emerald Slytherin robes, then sat down to listen to Cedric’s usual dramaticized pre-match pep talk.

“We have the best brooms, we’re faster, better, stronger and more intelligent than those stupid Gryffindors,” Cedric gave a bit of a laugh. “There’s no reason for us to lose today. In fact, I’m hoping the match ends quickly. Got it, Potter? Good. All ready? Lets go!” 

“No pressure, Potter,” Evalyn De’Claire giggled, ruffling his hair. “Catch the snitch before Crowe, I suspect it’ll be easy for you, as always.”

Harry felt nervous. What if his broom was bewitched again? What if something went wrong? 

He shook his head, as they made their way out onto the field. 

When they gathered on the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; the Slytherins’ cheers were so loud that they drowned out the boos from Gryffindor’s side. When Gryffindor came out, though, there was much more cheering. It was clear that most of the school wanted Gryffindor to beat Slytherin this time. 

Madam Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Munroe and Wood to shake hands, which they did, Wood throwing threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary, and Cedric looking tauntingly at him. 

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three... two... one…” 

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around for the Snitch.

He saw Draco by the hoops, taunting a Gryffindor, showing off his new broom. 

This had distracted Harry, because at that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him. He avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.

“Close one, Potter!” Cole De’Claire wizzed past him, club at the hand, ready to pelt the bludger straight towards an unsuspecting Gryffindor. 

Harry saw him give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Wood, wanting to take him out as soon as possible, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again. 

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and Evalyn De’Claire managed to hit it hard toward Jonathan Crowe. 

Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry's head.

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible... 

Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harry ducked as he pelted it towards him with much greater speed. Luckily, Cole had already beaten it off course, and gave Harry a few seconds to gather his bearings. 

Though it didn’t last long. The Bludger was already racing towards him, and Harry, thanks to the speed of his Nimbus 2001, managed to evade it, racing around the field, his eyes peeled for the snitch. 

Then it had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn't have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say, "Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero.”

Harry smiled a bit. Their new brooms were clearly doing the job. He wondered, maybe they’d make it, even if Jonathan Crowe did manage to catch the snitch. 

He quickly shook his head. There was no excuses. He was going to catch it, or die trying.

“Jonathan Crowe is after the snitch! He’s close! Come on Gryffindor!” Lee Jordan shouted. 

The Bludger missing Harry once again, he wheeled around and sped back, trying to confuse it. 

Both De’Claire twins were now either side of him, trying to stop the bludger from hitting him, but Harry found it distracting. He couldn’t see the snitch through the thick drops of rain no matter how hard he was squinting. 

“Someone's... tampered... with this... Bludger..." Evalyn shouted, swinging her bat with all her might at it as the Bludger launched a new attack on Harry. 

“We need time out,” said Cole, trying to signal to Cedric and stop the Bludger breaking Harry's nose at the same time. Cedric got the message. 

Madam Hooch's whistle rang out and Harry, Cole, and Evalyn dived for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger. 

“What on earth is going on?” said Cedric, as the Slytherin team huddled together. He was in a very bad mood. “Where were the both of you when that Bludger stopped me from scoring?” he looked to Cole and Evalyn, disappointment written on his face. 

“The second Bludger’s gone wild,” Cole said, “it’s trying to kill Potter.”

“Is that so?” Cedric looked at Harry. 

Evalyn chimed in, “someone’s messed with it, Cedric. It won’t leave him alone, I’m telling you…”

“I don’t care,” Cedric muttered angrily. “You’re going back up to the field. One of you back Potter up, since the second Bludgers is following him. And the other, keep your eye out on the first Bludger. We’re not letting Gryffindor score a single point before Harry catches his snitch. It’s going to be a win of a century. Get on your brooms…”

Harry had never seen Cedric so serious. He knew he had to get the snitch. He had to prove to himself, and to his whole school, that Slytherin team was talented. That they don’t have to buy their way in. He had to catch the snitch despite being stalked by a rogue Bludger. 

Madam Hooch had joined them. 

“Ready to resume play?” she asked Cedric.

Cedric smiled and nodded, “of course we are.” 

Harry swallowed, looking toward the Gryffindor team who was eyeing them from the other side of the pitch. 

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch's whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him. 

Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. 

Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. 

He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn't change direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goal posts, where Victoria Meyrose was trying to get past Wood, the Gryffindor keeper. 

A whistling in Harry's ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again; he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction towards the Slytherin hoops. 

Draco, whom looked like he didn’t get much action since the Slytherins consistently kept the quaffle on the other side of the field, was looking at Harry nonchalantly. 

He must’ve been distracted by his strange zig-zagging and twirling, that he hadn’t noticed when Angelina Johnson threw the Quaffle towards the Slytherin hoops and scored Gryffindor’s first 10 points. 

Gryffindors went wild. 

Draco hadn’t realized what happened until Lee Jordan announced it. 

“Concentrate, Malfoy!” roared Cole from a few feet away from Harry, trying to hit the Bludger away from him. As if by an effect of dominos, distracted by Draco’s loss, he got in the way of the Bludger and got knocked off his broom.

There was a gasp from the audience. Harry gathered his bearings, looking down at the ground. Cole lay there, motionless, as Fred and George Weasley zoomed past him, giving each other high-fives. 

“Come on, Potter!” he heard Victoria’s voice from the left, and quickly snapped his head forward, twirling out of the way of the bludger and squinting again. 

Then he saw it. A flash of gold by Draco’s ear. The snitch. Draco didn’t seem to notice it, he was looking at Harry. 

Harry stayed still for a second too long. 

WHAM!

With a crack, Harry felt his elbow break. Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at his side. The Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time whizzing at his face. Harry swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to Draco.

Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the shimmering face below him and saw its eyes widen with fear: Draco thought Harry was attacking him. “What the-” he gasped, careening out of Harry's way. 

Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out.

With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting from the Slytherin stand. He focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand. 

“Aha,” he said vaguely. “We've won.” 

And then he fainted. 

* * *

He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth. 

“Oh, no, not you,” he moaned. 

“Doesn't know what he's saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of Slytherins pressing around them. Draco was holding his broom, looking down at him. Michael had pushed through to get to him, and fell on his knees by his side. 

“Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm.”

“No!” said Harry. “I'll keep it like this, thanks…” 

He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. 

He heard a familiar clicking noise nearby. 

“I don't want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly. 

“Lie back, Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It's a simple charm I've used countless times-” 

“Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry through clenched teeth.

He could see Pansy Parkinson and her gang a way away from them, sneering. 

“He should really, Professor,” said Michael breathlessly. 

Just then, Cedric appeared, grinning even though his Seeker was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I must say-” 

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight. 

“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves. 

“No- don't-” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harry's arm.

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry's shoulder and spread all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being deflated. He didn't dare look at what was happening. He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. Cedric was clapping. 

His arm didn't hurt anymore, nor did it feel remotely like an arm. 

“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing... ah, Mr. Munroe, Mr. Malfoy, would you escort him? And Madam Pomfrey will be able to- er- tidy you up a bit.” 

Michael gave Harry a hand, and supported him as he stood. 

Draco didn’t move until Cedric said, “Go on, help Potter…” 

“I- I’m alright,” Harry said, looking Draco, who seemed to keep his distance still. When he got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again. Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened. Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones. He had removed them. 

Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.

“You should have come straight to me!” she raged, holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend bones in a second... but growing them back!”

“You will be able to, won't you?” said Harry desperately. 

“I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pajamas. “You'll have to stay the night…” 

Harry watched them bring Cole to the hospital wing on a stretcher. Evalyn was rushing after him, crying her eyes out. 

He clearly had it much worse than Harry. He hoped that he’d be okay. 

“I can’t believe Lockhart removed your bones…” Michael said in disbelief, as Harry had a curtain drawn around his bed so he could change. 

“Makes you question everything he wrote in those books, doesn’t it?” came a voice from nearby. Ron made his way through the door, looking worried. “That bloody idiot… He should get the sack… Is Harry alright?”

Michael nodded. “His bones will grow back… so it should be fine.”

“Still, you’re bonkers, Harry. Catching the snitch with a broken arm like that… The way you hung by your legs off your broom. Even the Gryffindors were impressed.”

Harry drew back his curtains a bit. 

“Does it hurt?” Ron asked. 

“No,” said Harry, getting into bed. “But it doesn't do anything else either.” 

As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly.

Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. She was holding a large bottle of something labeled Skele-Gro. 

“You're in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to him. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.” 

So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry's mouth and throat as it went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Michael and Ron to help Harry gulp down some water.

She was now back to tending Cole, Evalyn still poised by his side. 

“We’ve won though,” Michael shrugged. “That’s something. Cedric was so pleased with you.” 

Ron sighed a bit. “To be fair, we all thought you’d guys win just because of your Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. Now everyone thinks you’re a legend again. No broomstick could make you turn something like this around, Harry.” 

Harry gave a weak smile. 

“Have you seen Malfoy, though?” Ron couldn’t stifle a laugh, “Munroe had a proper go at him for letting Angelina score.” 

“We were all excited to see Slytherin win without Gryffindor getting a single point,” Michael sighed. 

Ron furrowed his brows, “he kept looking at Harry… it was almost like he was concerned.”

“Rubbish,” Harry muttered. “He probably wanted to see me taken out.”

“Do you think…” Michael lowered his voice, “that he fixed that Bludger?” 

Ron was confused. “Why would Malfoy want his own team to lose?”

“Nevermind,” Harry quickly said. “You both better go have dinner before you miss it… and make Madam Pomfrey even angrier... I’ll be fine. I promise,” he glanced at Michael. He clearly didn’t want Ron to know what they were planning. Not that they didn’t trust him, but the less people knew the better. 

“Alright,” Michael said. “See you tomorrow, Harry…” 

“See you, mate,” said Ron. 

With that, they left. 

And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his limp arm. Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark. 

“Get off!” he said loudly, and then, “Dobby!” 

The house-elf's goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose. “Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered miserably.

“Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?” 

Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed Dobby's sponge away. “What're you doing here?” he said. “And how did you know I missed the train?” 

Dobby's lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion. “It was you!” he said slowly. “You stopped the barrier from letting us through!” 

“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward” 

He showed Harry ten long, bandaged fingers. Harry couldn’t help feeling like he was trying to get him to feel sorry for him. But at that moment he didn’t. 

“Dobby didn't care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way!” He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head. “Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir…”

“Have you thought of maybe… leaving me be then?” Harry wondered in amazement. “I never asked for you to come and save me. I can protect myself, I don’t need your help…”

Harry slumped back onto his pillows. “You nearly got me and my friends expelled,” he said fiercely. “You'd better get lost before my bones come back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.” 

Dobby smiled weakly. “Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home.”

“I don’t care,” Harry repeated. “Get out-”

Dobby was blowing his nose on his pillowcase. 

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but feel like this visit distracted him from the searing pain of his bones growing back. 

Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, “Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make-” 

“Your Bludger?” said Harry, anger rising once more. “What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?” 

“Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” said Dobby, shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!” 

“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?” 

“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elfs were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. 

“But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the dark days would never end... And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more-” Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Harry's water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. 

A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, “Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby…” 

“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered. “And did you say it's been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!” He seized the elf's bony wrist as Dobby's hand inched toward the water jug. “But I'm not Muggle-born... how can I be in danger from the Chamber?” 

“Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,” stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen... go home, Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too dangerous!” 

“Who is it, Dobby?” Harry said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby's wrist to stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again. “Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?” 

“Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!” squealed the elf. “Go home, Harry Potter, go home!” 

“I'm not going anywhere!” said Harry fiercely. “This is my home! And I’m not going to let the heir of Slytherin, whomever it may be, turn this place into a bloodbath!”

“Harry Potter risks his own life for his school!” moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. “So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not-” 

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside. 

“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed. 

“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed out of sight. 

Harry lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. 

He heard a sharp intake of breath. “What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed. 

“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found him on the stairs.” 

“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,” said Professor McGonagall. “We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter…” 

Harry's stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. 

A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face. It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his camera. 

“petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey. 

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to think... If Albus hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate... who knows what might have…” 

The three of them stared down at Colin. 

Then Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the camera out of Colin's rigid grip. 

“You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?” said Professor McGonagall eagerly.

Dumbledore didn't answer. He opened the back of the camera. 

“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey. A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. 

Harry, three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt plastic. 

“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. “All melted…” 

“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked urgently. 

“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.” 

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. 

Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

“But, Albus... surely... who?” 

“The question is not who,” said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin. “The question is, how…” 

And from what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall's shadowy face, she didn't understand this any better than he did. 


	9. The Duelling Club

Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the hospital wing blazing with winter sunlight and his arm reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly and looked over at Colin's bed, but it had been blocked from view by the high curtains Harry had changed behind yesterday. 

Seeing that he was awake, Madam Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then began bending and stretching his arm and fingers. 

“All in order,” she said as he clumsily fed himself porridge lefthanded. “When you've finished eating, you may leave.” 

Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off to the dungeons, desperate to tell Michael about Colin and Dobby, but he wasn't there. 

Harry left to look for him, wondering where he could be and feeling slightly hurt that he wasn’t interested in whether he had his bones back or not.

As he went past the library, Cedric Munroe strolled out looking pleased. “Oh, there you are, Harry,” he said in a cheery tone. “Good job catching that snitch yesterday. What a spectacle it was. I say, Raphy almost fell of his broom…” he chuckled. 

“Thanks,” Harry faked a smile, “have you seen Michael by the way?”

“Michael? No… I bet he’s up to no good somewhere…” with a laugh, he began striding away, before pausing and rotating like clockwork towards Harry. “Actually, I think I saw him at the potion ingredient stores with Granger earlier… wonder what he’s up to with that mudblood…”

Harry’s eyes widened. He knew where they were. 

“Bye Harry!” Cedric waved at his back, as he ran down the corridor towards the out-of-order bathroom. 

Looking around to make sure that Filch or anyone else wasn’t there, he quietly opened the door and heard quiet voices coming from one of the stalls. 

“It's me,” he said, closing the door behind him. 

There was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the stall and he saw Hermione's eye peering through the keyhole.

“Harry!” she said. “You gave us such a fright... come in, how's your arm?” 

“Fine,” said Harry, squeezing into the stall. 

An old cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling from under the rim told Harry they had lit a fire beneath it. Apparently, conjuring up portable, waterproof fires was a speciality of Hermione's.

“I wanted to come see you but then I saw Hermione and we decided to get a head start,” Michael said apologetically. “We've decided this is the safest place to hide it.”

Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione interrupted. “We already know... we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That's why we decided we'd better get going… The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy the better.”

Harry decided to tell them about Dobby. He had to explain to Hermione who Dobby was. 

He said that the Chamber of Secrets has indeed been opened again. 

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” Michael said. 

“This settles it,” said Hermione importantly. “Lucius Malfoy must've opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he's told his son how to do it. It's obvious. It’s all starting to make sense.”

“But what about the monster?” Michael asked, “did Dobby say anything about the monster?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I can’t begin to imagine how a monster like this could go undetected.” 

“Maybe it’s invisible,” Hermione suggested, prodding leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or maybe it can disguise itself, pretend to be a suit of armor or something... I've read about Chameleon Ghouls…” 

Michael shrugged, pouring dead lacewings on top of the leeches. He crumpled up the empty lacewing bag and looked at Harry. “So Dobby was the one who stopped us getting on the train… and tried to break your arm too?” 

“If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life, he’s going to kill you,” Hermione sighed. 

* * *

The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone. 

Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in Charms, was distraught, but Fred and George Weasley were going the wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy, the Gryffindor Prefect, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. 

Neville Longbottom bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger; he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.

“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, his round face fearful. “And everyone knows I'm almost a Squib.”

“Was about to make fun of you, Longbottom, but you already did it for me!” Pansy Parkinson remarked, going past him down the hallway. “For extra protection, write “Gryffindor Stinks” on your forehead!” 

Her Slytherin friends were in tears. 

In the second week of December Professor Snape came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. Harry and Michael signed his list; they had heard that Draco was staying, which struck them as suspicious. 

The holidays would be the perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to get a confession out of him. Hermione was staying too, which was a relief for the both of them. Only she knew how to brew something as complicated as this perfectly. 

Unfortunately, though, the potion was only half finished. They still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place they were going to get them was from Snape's private stores. 

Harry privately felt he'd rather face Slytherin's legendary monster than let Snape catch him robbing his office.

“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday afternoon's double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape's office and take what we need.” 

Harry and Michael looked at her nervously. 

“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermione continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “You two will be expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I've got a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.”

Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape's Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye.

Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday afternoon's lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. 

Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors' work while the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. 

Draco, who was Snape's favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron and Neville, who knew that if they retaliated they would get detention faster than you could say “Unfair.”

Harry's Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he had his mind on more important things. He was waiting for Hermione's signal from across the class, and he hardly listened as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. 

When Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville, Hermione caught Harry's eye and nodded.

Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron, pulled one of Fred's Filibuster fireworks that Ron gave him out of his pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand. 

The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had only seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in Goyle's cauldron.

Goyle's potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Pansy Parkinson got a faceful and her nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate; and Draco managed to duck under his desk, unable to contain his laughter. 

Snape was trying to restore calm and find out what had happened. Through the confusion, Harry saw Hermione slip quietly into Snape's office.

“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draft... when I find out who did this…” 

Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Pansy hurry forward, her head drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. 

As half the class lumbered up to Snape's desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed up lips, Harry saw Hermione slide back into the dungeon, the front of her robes bulging. 

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to Goyle's cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of the firework. 

There was a sudden hush.

“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I shall make sure that person is expelled.” 

Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a puzzled expression. Snape was looking right at him, and the bell that rang ten minutes later could not have been more welcome. 

“He knew it was me,” Harry told Michael and Hermione as they hurried back to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. 

“I could tell.” Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to stir feverishly. 

“It'll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily. 

“Professor Snape can't prove it was you,” said Michael reassuringly to Harry. “What can he do?” 

“Knowing Snape, something foul,” said Harry as the potion frothed and bubbled.

* * *

A week later, Harry and Michael were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. 

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were looking excited. 

“They're starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First meeting tonight! I wouldn't mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days.”

Both Harry and Michael looked intrigued as they read the notice. It was for second and third years only. 

“This could be useful,” Michael said. 

“Why, d’you think the Slytherin monster can duel?” Harry said lightheartedly. 

“You never know,” Michael replied with a warm sort of smile. 

At eight o'clock that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. 

The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

Harry spotted Ron looking kind of nervous with his broken wand, and Hermione was also there. 

“I wonder who'll be teaching us?” they heard Hermione say as they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was young… maybe it'll be him.” 

Harry, however, knew who he didn’t want to see… and when he saw him, his spirits fell. 

Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! 

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions... for full details, see my published works. 

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry, you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!”

Harry and Michael exchanged glances. 

Ron said what the both of them were thinking, "Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?"

Snape's upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that he'd have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them. 

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I wouldn't bet on that,” Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth. 

“One- two- three-”

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: “Expelliarmus!” 

There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor. 

Draco and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Harry and Ron couldn’t contain grunts of laughter. 

Hermione was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think he's all right?” she squealed through her fingers.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end. 

“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm... as you see, I've lost my wand… ah, thank you, Miss Brown... yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy… however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…”

Snape was looking murderous. 

Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me…”

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. 

Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ron with Seamus Finnigan, but Snape reached Harry and Michael first.

"Time to split you two up, I think," he sneered. "Munroe, you can partner Crowe. Potter-" 

Harry moved automatically toward Hermione. 

“I don't think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr. Malfoy, come over here... And you, Miss Granger... you can partner Miss Bulstrode.”

Malfoy strolled over, not saying a word. Behind him came Millicent Bulstrode. Hermione gave her a weak smile that she did not return.

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!”

Harry and Draco barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.

Michael and Jonathan Crowe were probably the only ones who bowed properly, which was pointed out by Lockhart. “That’s the ticket, watch and learn!”

Hermione also tried bowing properly, but the distinct smell of fish made her gag. 

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents... only to disarm them... we don't want any accidents! One... two... three-”

Harry swung his wand high, but Draco had already started on “two”: His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as though he'd been hit over the head with a saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at Draco and shouted, “Rictusempra!” 

A jet of silver light hit Draco in the stomach and he doubled up, wheezing. 

“I said disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Draco sank to his knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing. 

Harry hung back, with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch him while he was on the floor, but this was a mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry's knees, choked, “Tarantallegra!” and the next second Harry's legs began to jerk around out of his control in a kind of quickstep.

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge. 

“Finite Incantatem!” he shouted; Harry's feet stopped dancing, Draco stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot bigger than he was.

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan... Careful there, Miss Fawcett... Pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a second! Oh wow, Miss De’Claire, wonderful disarming… Look here, Mr. Munroe and Mr. Crowe had done it well! 

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. 

He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. 

“Let's have a volunteer pair. Mr. Munroe and Mr. Crowe! Hah, that rhymed.” 

The two of them walked into the middle of the hall, both looked totally expressionless. 

Jonathan had dark eyes, Harry thought. If he didn’t know better he’d look like he’d belong to Slytherin. 

“Now, Michael,” said Lockhart, his hand on his shoulder. “When Jonathan points his wand at you, you do this…” 

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. 

Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops… my wand is a little overexcited-” 

Snape, meanwhile, whispered something to Jonathan, and Jonathan nodded, looking at Michael behind dark strands of hair. 

“So, as a demonstration, these two here will show you exactly how to do it!” Lockhart said merrily. Harry wondered whether he didn’t want to demonstrate with Snape again for fear of being murdered this time. 

Lockhart bent forward to Michael’s height and muttered, "Just do what I did, Michael!" 

"Drop my wand?" Michael raised his eyebrows. 

Lockhart ignored him.

“Bow… take your positions…” he said. “One… two… three…”

“Stupefy!” Jonathan swung his wand towards his opponent.

“Protego-” Michael did the same, casting a shield which prevented the spell from having an effect on him. 

Harry looked amazed. 

“Well done!” Lockhart clapped loudly, “that was indeed impressive… See how quickly you can learn a spell when I teach it? Don’t worry, Professor Flitwick won’t be leaving anytime soon,” he laughed. 

Jonathan looked at Michael the whole time he spoke, as if he wanted to throw another spell at him. 

Michael was growing rather nervous. 

At last, Lockhart said, “We have time for another volunteer pair…” and Michael and Jonathan moved out of the way, as Snape marched towards the centre. 

“Of course, it’s only fair that Professor Snape’ll choose the next one.” 

“Potter and Malfoy,” Snape said, without even stopping to think. 

Harry swallowed.

“Very well,” Lockhart said with a grin. “Up you get, Harry. You too Draco. Come on up, you little troublemakers!”

Michael smiled weakly at Harry, as he made his way towards Lockhart. 

“Harry… you saw what Michael did… just do that…” he patted his shoulder before moving off stage. 

‘Protego,’ thought Harry, nodding to himself. He tried to remember how Michael swung his wand. Lockhart wasn’t helpful in the slightest. 

Snape moved closer to Draco, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Draco’s and Harry’s eyes met. He was totally expressionless. 

“Three... two... one... go!” Lockhart shouted. 

Draco raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “Serpensortia!” 

Harry was about shout Protego when he saw what appeared. 

A long black snake shot out of Draco’s wand, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. 

There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor. 

“Don't move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I'll get rid of it…” 

“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Harry wasn't sure what made him do it. He wasn't even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward as though he was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave him alone!” 

And miraculously... inexplicably... the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. 

Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the snake wouldn't attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn't have explained.

He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful... but certainly not angry and scared.

“What do you think you're playing at?” he shouted, and before Harry could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall. 

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. 

Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn't like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging on the back of his robes.

“Harry,” it was Michael. He had never seen him this pale before. He was as white as Lockhart’s shining teeth. “Let’s go… let’s get out of here…” 

“What?” Harry whispered. 

“Come on,” he tugged a little harder. 

Harry nodded a bit and made his way out of the great hall with his best friend, looking around at everybody’s terrified faces. He saw Hermione who avoided looking at him. She looked like she was about to faint. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asked Michael, trying to keep up with him as he made his way down into the dungeons. 

Michael didn’t say a thing until they were in the Slytherin common room. 

“What did I do?” Harry looked confused. “Why was everyone staring at me like I just killed someone? Even Snape looked worried…”

Michael glanced around, even though the common room was empty. “Don’t you get how this looks?” he whispered. “This isn’t… normal… Not for Muggles nor wizards.”

“Not normal what?” Harry sat down in the armchair, confused. “If I didn’t tell that snake not to attack Justin, it would have had him…” 

“That’s what you said?” Michael asked. 

“You were right there… you heard me!” 

“I heard you speak Parseltongue…”

“Parsel-what?”

“It’s snake language, Harry.”

“I was speaking another language?” Harry was even more confused. How could he speak another language whilst sounding English to himself? 

“Yes. It looked really bad, Harry. It looked like you were telling the snake to attack him or something.”

“But I wasn’t…” Harry felt helpless. “I swear, I was telling it to back off.”

“I believe you, Harry,” Michael said reassuringly, “but that’s not what the whole school thinks you said.” 

Harry looked down. Is that why he understood that boa constrictor at the zoo and could talk to it? 

“You do realize how this looks, though, don’t you?” Michael said quietly. 

Harry looked up at him. “I really don’t… So what anyway… I bet lots of people can do it...”

“No Harry… It’s extremely rare…” he looked down at his sleeves, which he fumbled with nervously, “People will think you’re the heir of Slytherin. After all, Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth too…” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. 

“What if you are related to him?”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “I can’t be…”

“You don’t know that, Harry,” Michael sighed softly. “You’re in Slytherin, you speak Parseltongue… you’re caught at the scene where Mrs. Norris’ is petrified…”

“You were there!” Harry gasped. “You know I didn’t do it!”

“Calm down… I know it’s not you… but that’s how everyone else will see it… we have to get that confession out of Draco as soon as possible.” 

They went off to bed early that night. Harry didn’t want to hang around in the common room or anywhere else really. He didn’t want people staring at him and muttering about him, he had enough of that for the day. 

Michael was playing with Cheshire, his curtain open a little on Harry’s side so they could talk. 

“I need to go speak to Justin,” Harry muttered sleepily. “We’ve got Herbology tomorrow. I’ll explain to him what I said to the snake…” 

By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey.

Harry almost thought that it was still night time when he woke up in the morning. The layer of ice over the lake must’ve blocked out most of the light and left the dormitory void of anything but a dim, green glow. 

He and Harry sat quietly in the dormitory, neither of them knowing what to talk about. Even Slytherins were avoiding Harry. 

He stood up finally, glancing over to Michael. “I’m going to go find Justin,” he said. 

Michael got up, too. 

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to…”

“I know,” Michael looked bored. “There’s nothing better to do… Let’s go to the library, maybe we can find Hermione and...” he glanced around the common room. Draco was sitting on a couch nearby. 

Harry nodded, getting what he meant. 

So the two of them set off to the library. The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, the two of them walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger.

“Lets keep going,” Michael said quietly, as Harry stopped to take a look. 

Soon they were at the doors of the library. 

A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn't seem to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. He couldn't see whether Justin was among them. 

Michael stood by the door. To his surprise, he couldn’t see Hermione either. 

Harry was walking toward them when something of what they were saying met his ears, and he paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section. Michael saw Harry disappear behind the bookshelf, and decided to go along the back row, as silent as a cat, to where he was. 

“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter's marked him down as his next victim, it's best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually told him he'd been down for Eton. That's not the kind of thing you say to a Slytherin when there’s a Slytherin's heir on the loose, is it?” 

“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said a girl with blonde pigtails anxiously.

“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue.” 

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie went on, “Remember what was written on the wall? Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter had some sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch's cat's attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know... Creevey's been attacked.” 

“He always seemed so nice for a Slytherin, though,” said Hannah uncertainly, “and, well, he's the one who made You-Know-Who disappear twice. He can't be all bad, can he?” 

Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Harry edged nearer so that he could catch Ernie's words.

“No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and said, “That's probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter's been hiding? I mean, everyone thought he’d be sorted into Gryffindor, right… but he ended up in Slytherin… if that’s not saying something-”

Harry couldn't take anymore. Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves. Michael reached his hand out as if to grab him but it was too late.

If Harry hadn't been feeling so angry, he would have found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been petrified by the sight of him, and the color was draining out of Ernie's face.

“Hello,” said Harry. “I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.” 

The Hufflepuffs' worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie. 

“W-what do you want with him?” said Ernie in a quavering voice. 

“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harry. 

Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what happened.” 

“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” said Harry. 

“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.” 

“I didn't chase it at him!” Harry said, his voice shaking with anger. “It didn't even touch him!”

“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case you're getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood's as pure as anyone's, so-”

“I don't care what sort of blood you've got!” said Harry fiercely.

By Ernie’s face, it was clear that he took that as a threat. 

Harry was exasperated, “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”

“Y- you’re in Slytherin… and… I've heard you hate those Muggles you live with too,” said Ernie swiftly. 

“It's not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them,” said Harry. “I’d like to see you try it… but it doesn’t mean that I want them dead!” 

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, earning himself a reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was polishing the gilded cover of a large spellbook.

Michael tried to keep up with him, but he didn’t even wait for him. Harry was in a fowl mood. “Why does it matter if I’m in Slytherin or not?” He asked, aware of Michael being somewhere behind him. When he stopped, the red haired boy almost crashed straight into him. “Why does everyone think that Slytherins are all so terrible? Yes, we have Pansy Parkinson and her lot… and Cedric… but everyone else is fine…”

Michael nodded, not knowing what to say. He figured the last thing Harry needed was for him to start explaining things. 

Harry glanced at Michael for a split second, and resumed blundering up the corridor, barely noticing where he was going, he was in such a fury. The result was that he walked into something very large and solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor. 

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up. 

Hagrid's face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn't possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.

Michael caught up again breathlessly, seeing Hagrid and giving him a smile. “Hello Hagrid!”

“All righ', you two?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak. “Why aren't yeh in class?” 

“Canceled,” said Harry, getting up. “What're you doing in here?” 

Hagrid held up the limp rooster. “Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It's either foxes or a Blood-Suckin Bugbear, an' I need the Headmaster's permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.”

He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, snow-flecked eyebrows. “Yeh sure yeh're all righ'? Yeh look all hot an' bothered…”

Harry couldn't bring himself to repeat what Ernie and the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about him. “It's nothing,” he said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it's Transfiguration next and I've got to pick up my books.” 

He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had said about him. “Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born…”

Michael decided to give Harry some room, so he didn’t follow him. He wanted to see if he could find Hermione before next lesson started. 

Harry stomped up the stairs once he got all his books and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. 

He was halfway down the passage when he tripped headlong over something lying on the floor. He turned to squint at what he'd fallen over and felt as though his stomach had dissolved. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn't all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever seen. It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justin's. 

Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either side.

He could run, and no one would ever know he had been there. But he couldn't just leave them lying here... He had to get help... Would anyone believe he hadn't had anything to do with this? 

As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.

“Why, it's potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, knocking Harry's glasses askew as he bounced past him. “What's Potter up to? Why's Potter lurking-”

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. 

He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and, before Harry could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Crash- crash- crash- door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. 

For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that Justin was in danger of being squashed and people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. 

Harry found himself pinned against the wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. 

Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her own class, one of whom still had black-and-white-striped hair. She used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.

“Caught in the act!” Ernie yelled, his face stark white, pointing his finger dramatically at Harry. 

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply. 

Michael appeared, looking breathless, his cheeks stained a deep red. He ran up the stairs after hearing the commotion. When he saw Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, the colour drained from his face. 

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. 

As the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song: “Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done, You're killing off' students, you think it's good fun… Plotting and petrify-ing one by one-” 

“That's enough Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry.

Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. 

In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. 

This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. 

This left Harry, Michael and Professor McGonagall alone together. 

“This way, Potter,” she said. 

“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn't-” 

“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall curtly.

Michael watched from the hallway, still trying to catch his breath, as Harry was taken away. 

They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle. 

“Lemon drop!” she said. 

This was evidently a password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. 

Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry couldn't fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin. He knew now where he was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.


	10. The Polyjuice Potion

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Harry to wait and left him there, alone. 

Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices Harry had visited so far this year, Dumbledore's was by far the most interesting. If he hadn't been scared out of his wits that he was about to be thrown out of school, he would have been very pleased to have a chance to look around it. It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard's hat... the Sorting Hat. 

Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn't hurt if he took the hat down and tried it on again? Just to see… if he could transfer to a different house. Was it a stupid idea? 

He remembered Ernie say, “didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with him.” He didn’t know what he was capable of. And what Slytherin could make of him. 

He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto his head. It was much too large and slipped down over his eyes, just as it had done the last time he'd put it on. Harry stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice said in his ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harry Potter?” 

“Er, yes,” Harry muttered. “Er... sorry to bother you.... I wanted to ask-”

“To ask whether you can transfer to a different house?” The hat mused. “And why exactly would you want to do that?”

“What if… I’m destined to go bad? What if I’m destined to become the next Dark Lord? I don’t think I’m evil… maybe I don’t belong in Slytherin...” 

“Your destiny does not lie within Slytherin itself, Harry. You belong to this house, and I stand by what I said. You could be great. But you’re the only one who gets to decide what side to be on, the dark, or the light. Slytherin is not inherently evil. In fact, it’ll give you the strength and ambition and resourcefulness you need to persevere over evil.” 

Harry paused. He somehow knew the hat was right. But…

“You don’t think you can trust yourself, Potter?” the hat suddenly spoke his thoughts aloud. “If you are destined to be the next Dark Lord, it doesn’t matter which house I put you in. The decision remains with you. So choose your path.” 

With that, the hat went quiet. Harry stood there for a minute, wondering if it had something else to say, before taking off his head and putting it back on the shelf. 

Somehow, his words of wisdom had given Harry the courage he needed. The hat was right, he was in control of his destiny. It didn’t matter if he was in Slytherin. He would wear his house with pride, and show everyone that they are wrong about him. 

Suddenly, a strange, gagging noise behind him made him wheel around. He wasn't alone after all. 

Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail. 

Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore's pet bird to die while he was alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames. 

Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn't see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smouldering pile of ash on the floor.

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber. 

“Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird- I couldn't do anything- he just caught fire-” 

To Harry's astonishment, Dumbledore smiled. 

“About time, too,” he said. “He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on.” He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry's face. “Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him…”

Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one. 

“It's a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,” said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. “He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets.”

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had forgotten what he was there for, but it all came back to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his penetrating, light-blue stare. 

Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand. 

“It wasn' Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was talkin' ter him seconds before that kid was found, he never had time, sir-” 

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.

“-it can't've bin him, I'll swear it in front o' the Ministry o' Magic if I have to-” 

“Hagrid, I-” 

“-yeh've got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never-” 

“Hagrid!” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that Harry attacked those people.” 

“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. “Right. I'll wait outside then, Headmaster.” And he stomped out looking embarrassed.

“You don't think it was me, Professor?” Harry repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk. 

“No, Harry, I don't,” said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you.”

Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered him, the tips of his long fingers together. 

“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you'd like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.” 

Harry didn't know what to say. He thought of Draco saying, “you'll be next, Mudbloods,” and of the Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. 

Then he thought of the disembodied voice he had heard twice and remembered what Michael had said: “You realize hearing voices isn’t normal, right? Even in the magic world.” 

He thought, too, about what everyone was saying about him, and his growing dread that he was somehow connected with Salazar Slytherin…

“No,” said Harry. “There isn't anything, Professor…”

* * *

The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick's fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas. 

“I think we’re going to be the only ones left at this point,” Harry said to Michael, “You, me, Hermione, Draco, Crabbe, Goyle…” he counted on his fingers. 

Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Draco did, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. But Harry was glad that most people were leaving. He was tired of people skirting around him in the corridors, as though he was about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and hissing as he passed.

Cedric found it all very amusing. He’d walk behind Harry, shouting, “Out of the way for Potter! Heir of Slytherin coming through!” 

As they passed, Harry saw Ginny Weasley’s face, which was filled with terror. 

The corridors would part for him most of the time, and the loud chattering of the crowd would die down into hushed whispers. 

Whenever an unsuspecting student got in the way, Cedric would shout, “move along! Potter’s going to be late for tea in his Chamber of Secrets with his beast, wouldn’t want to anger him…” 

Harry wasn’t sure whether Cedric really believed he was the heir of Slytherin or not, but he irritated him even more. He knew that if he himself really was the heir of Slytherin, Cedric would be next on his list.

Slytherins who were excited about Muggle-borns being petrified were praising Harry though, which made Draco scowl, as if Harry was getting all the credit for his work. 

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Harry said. “We need to go and find Hermione.” 

As their luck would have it, they saw her in the library, doing her homework. 

Harry approached her table, which made her jump a little. 

“We need to go finish up that potion,” Harry said. 

Hermione avoided his eyes. She didn’t say a word. 

“Hermione, are you okay?”

Hermione closed her book quickly, and stood up, making her way towards the door. 

“Don’t tell me you believe that I’m-”

“I’m not going to go anywhere alone with you…” she snapped. “If you think framing Malfoy for your killing spree is going to work, then you’re delusional.” 

With that she turned around and left, quick paced. 

Harry glanced over at Michael. “You must be joking…” he muttered.

The two of them made their way to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. 

The cauldron was still simmering in one of the stalls, and the potions book was lying on the floor. “What do we do now?” Harry asked. 

“We finish the potion,” Michael replied, picking the book up and opening it to the Polyjuice Potion page. 

“But… what if something goes wrong… Hermione knew exactly how to do it right…”

“Certainly not from past experience,” Michael said. “All she knew was written in this book. So we can do it too…” 

Though Harry didn’t think he sounded so sure. But what choice did they have. Hermione wouldn’t trust them now. And Harry couldn’t blame her, either. 

“How long till it’s ready?” Harry asked, as Michael stirred clockwise. 

“Nearly ready… we have to wait for it to change colour,” he pointed at the book. “All we need now is a bit of someone we’re changing into…”

“We’re not going to be putting their fingers in there are we?” 

“Of course not. A hair will do.” 

* * *

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harry enjoyed the peace and quiet. Most Slytherins were gone. It was just him, Michael, Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode and Josh from their year. 

Michael and Harry busied themselves with wizard’s chess, exploding snap and homework whilst they waited for their potion to boil. 

The Weasleys had stayed over the holidays too. But like everyone else, they were also avoiding Harry. Ron hadn’t done so much as look at him. Ginny Weasley was so terrified that whenever he’d catch eyes with her she’d go as pale as the winter snow and run out of sight. 

Christmas morning dawned, and Harry and Michael woke up nice and early to start to finish up their potion. At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, carrying a very small package in her beak. 

"Hello," said Harry happily as she landed on his bed. "Are you speaking to me again?" 

She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way, which was a far better present than the one that she had brought him, which turned out to be from the Dursleys. 

They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note telling him to find out whether he'd be able to stay at Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too. 

The rest of Harry's Christmas presents were far more satisfactory. Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle fudge, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before eating; Mari had sent him and Michael a bunch of sweets and two luxurious looking scarves; Michael got Harry a magical Christmas card that sings once you open it. Not like the ones Muggles have with the little button devices. The pictures would sing a wizarding Christmas tune and music notes would leave the page and evaporate into the air. 

Harry felt bad, he didn’t get Michael anything. He was so preoccupied with the Chamber of Secrets that it completely left his head. 

“It’s fine,” Michael smiled, “I’m just happy to be spending Christmas with my best friend.” 

Once they finished opening up presents, they made their way to the bathroom to give the potion a good stir. It still had several hours to go, so they decided to go to breakfast. 

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. 

Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed. 

Percy Weasley, who hadn't noticed that Fred, his brother, had bewitched his prefect badge so that it now read "Pinhead," kept asking them all what they were sniggering at.

Harry was tempted to go and sit at the Gryffindor table, away from the gloomy faces of Draco and his gang. 

Hermione was reading up on a book and hadn’t even glanced at them. How would they prove to her now that Harry wasn’t the heir. Even if they found out Draco’s the culprit, she wouldn’t believe them. 

Harry whispered to Michael. “How do we get the hair…”

“Hermione and I figured out a plan after the Quidditch match… and I think it’s brilliant.” 

After Christmas tea, they made their way to the entrance hall. Michael was holding two large muffins. “You know how much they like to eat…” he said to Harry. “I put in a sleeping draught that should knock them out for a few hours… We’ll stuff them in the cleaning cupboard and take their hair.” 

“Do you think they will fall for it?” Harry asked, as he placed the muffins on the banister. 

“Of course they will.” 

Once everything was in place, they hid behind a statue and waited. Surely enough, Crabbe and Goyle made their way through the hall and spotted two giant muffins. They looked at each other with glee and rubbed their fat hands together, before rushing to the banister as if they were about to vanish. 

Harry watched in amazement as they began to stuff their faces. They looked like they were really enjoying them. Half way through, though, they were starting to get drowsy, and soon enough passed out on the spot. 

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” Harry said, as they heaved with all their might to get the two inside the cupboard. 

Once they were in, Harry took their shoes, since their own would be too small for them, and Michael took a hair from each of their heads. 

Rushing back to the bathroom, on a tight time limit, they threw their shoes by the sink and went to the stall with the cauldron. 

A pair of extra large robes lay in one of the cubicles for them to change into once they were done. 

“The potion is ready,” Michael double checked the book description. He was nervous, his hands shaking as he poured the gunky substance into two goblets. He gave one to Harry. 

Harry wheezed at the smell. 

“Okay… I’m scared,” Michael admitted. “It would have been so much easier with Hermione…”

“Don’t stress me out like that, at least pretend you know what you’re doing...” Harry looked in his goblet, and put in his hair. 

“We have one hour before we change back to ourselves,” Michael said, doing the same. 

Both glasses hissed and frothed: Harry’s turned the khaki color of a booger, Michael’s a dark, murky brown.

“This looks delicious,” Harry said sarcastically, his face contorted with disgust. 

“It’ll all be over in a few seconds,” Michael said reassuringly, more to himself than to Harry. 

“I think we should go into separate cubicles and get changed first so our clothes don’t rip.” 

The both of them separated into different stalls, got changed into bigger robes, shut their noses and downed their glasses.

“That was horrible,” Harry choked from the stall next to his. Michael was trying to hold his enormous pants up with one hand, and his glass with the other. “I feel violated…”

A few seconds later, Harry’s insides started writhing as though he'd just swallowed live snakes. Doubled up, he wondered whether he was going to be sick, then a burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to the very ends of his fingers and toes; next, bringing him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting feeling, as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot wax, and before his eyes, his hands began to grow, the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the knuckles were bulging like bolts, his shoulders stretched painfully and a prickling on his forehead told him that hair was creeping down toward his eyebrows, his large robes began to fit perfectly as his chest expanded like a barrel, and his feet were filling up Goyle’s large shoes. 

As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. Harry lay face down on the stone-cold floor, listening to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With difficulty, unused to being so large, he stood up. 

So this was what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand trembling, he reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead. Then he realized that his glasses were clouding his eyes because Goyle obviously didn't need them. He took them off and called, "Are you okay?" Goyle's low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth.

"Yeah," came the deep grunt of Crabbe from his right. 

Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of the cracked mirror. Goyle stared back at him out of dull, deepset eyes. Harry scratched his ear. So did Goyle.

Michael’s door opened. 

They stared at each other. Except that he looked pale and shocked, Michael was indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding-bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms.

“I don’t feel right…” Michael complained, his own voice shocking him. Harry could see why. He grew to over twice his usual size. 

“Same,” Harry said awkwardly, trying to get used to his new vocal chords. 

“You look just like him,” Michael pointed. Harry glanced into the mirror, his expression on point. Dumbfounded, his mouth open; he looked just as stupid as Goyle.

“At least it worked,” Harry said deeply. “We didn’t end up dying or turning into frogs.”

“I think I’d rather be a frog,” Michael struggled to move. “They’re so heavy… how can they walk around for long periods of time?” 

“They don’t,” Harry said, stifling a laugh. 

“We should go before it wears off…”

The two of them, stumbling down into the dungeons unusually, made their way towards the Slytherin common room. 

“I hope he’s there…” Michael said in Crabbe’s deep voice.

Down the hallway, though, they ended up bumping into Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect. “What are you two doing here, scurrying suspiciously around the dungeons?”

“We could ask you the same question,” Harry asked, trying to sound threatening. 

Percy fiddled with is prefect badge, as if trying to get them to notice it. “A word of advice… times like this, we shouldn’t be sneaking around looking suspicious.” 

“We’re heading back to our dormitory-” Michael began. 

“Quiet, Crabbe. I’m a prefect. Show a little respect…” he cleared his throat. “Now off you go… before I’m forced to take points for your rude attitudes.”

The two of them exchanged glances, before scurrying off to the Slytherin common room.

“Pure-blood,” Harry said to the door, and it opened as usual. Scrambling through, they almost got stuck trying to enter through side by side. 

“Oh, yeah,” Michael said, moving aside so Harry could go first. 

“It must be so hard to be so big,” Harry whispered back to him. “I don’t know how they do it…”

As they walked into the common room, they spotted Draco reading Alchemists Around the World on the sofa by the fire. He glanced up from his book and spotted them. “Oh there you are. Where did you run off to?”

“Toilets…” Harry said quickly, and then added, “Crabbe was sick…” 

Draco nodded once, looking back down at his book. “You know what I think, you two need to go on a diet.”

Harry nodded, before realizing he wasn’t supposed to be agreeing to it. Michael elbowed him with his large arm, and if he wasn’t as big as he was, he thought he’d be sent flying. 

Draco seemed to think that they were just being idiots again. 

“That Weasley prefect stopped us in the hallway,” Michael began, as Harry glanced sideways at him. “Saying we look suspicious…”

Draco gave a bit of a smirk at that, “you two do tend to make yourselves look suspicious at times,” he said. “That stupid Weasley,” he put his book down. “I bet he’s running around trying to catch the heir of Slytherin single-handedly. That idiot.”

Harry and Michael both looked at each other. 

“Oh, hang on,” Draco suddenly stood up, “there’s something I wanted to show you… wait here…” he went down into the dormitory, and came back several minutes later, holding a newspaper clipping. “Father sent this to me. That'll give you a laugh.” he handed it to Goyle. 

It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it said: 

“INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car. 

Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr. Weasley's resignation. 

“Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,” Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.” 

Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told reporters to clear off or she'd set the family ghoul on them.” 

“Well?” said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the clipping back to him. “Don't you think it's funny?” 

“Ha, ha,” said Harry bleakly.

It was a good call for Harry to say that Crabbe was sick. He looked it, after reading the newspaper. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Draco looked at him. 

“I’m still sick,” he said miserably. “But it’s funny… it’s really funny…”

Draco averted his eyes with a huff. "Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in half and go join them. You'd never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave. It’s a shame, really, that the heir of Slytherin can’t get to them.” 

Harry’s eyes widened suddenly. The heir of Slytherin… Draco spoke like it wasn’t him, though. 

“Do you, by any chance, know who the heir is?” Harry asked cautiously. 

Draco looked at him irritably, “I’ve already told you many times, Goyle, I don’t. Stop asking.”

“Don’t you think it’s Harry?” Michael suddenly said. Harry watched in anticipation. 

“No, I don’t…” Draco picked up an apple from the fruit bowl, looking at it. “He’s clearly too much of a mudblood lover to be the heir of Slytherin. Can you believe him and Michael are friends with that Weasley? Disgrace to the Slytherin house...”

Harry and Michael both stared stupidly at him, not knowing what to say. It was just their luck that Crabbe and Goyle were idiots. Harry was hurt by that remark, though. Is that what Draco really thought of them?

“And Granger too, I saw them sneaking around with Granger…” he talked sourly, “no wonder father didn’t want me associating with them.”

“But you seemed like you were good friends,” Harry said, before he could stop himself. 

Draco didn’t reply. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. “Anyway… I’d like to know who the Slytherin heir is so I can personally thank him.” 

“Yeah,” Michael grunted in Crabbe’s deep voice, “but you don’t want the mudbloods dead, do you?”

“No, of course not. But if they keep on getting petrified, maybe all the Muggle-borns will be forced to go home.” 

Harry let out a sigh of relief. Draco must’ve noticed. “Why, do you want them dead, Goyle?”

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. 

“Wouldn’t blame you if you did… but we’re not going to sink down to their level. Witches and Wizards were murdered by Muggles thousands of years ago. We’re better than they are. In fact, if last year has taught me anything, is that violence is just going to breed more violence. Last thing we need realistically is Muggles waging war against us.”

Both Harry and Michael nodded in agreement quickly. 

“Mudbloods can go back to their stupid Muggle world and the wizarding race can become pure again. I don’t see why father wants to start a war so badly...”

Michael didn’t feel good. He was actually developing a real stomachache. His insides felt like they were being contorted. 

Harry looked at him, confused. “Are you okay, Mi- Crabbe?” 

“Go up to the hospital wing if you’re so sick, and give those Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Draco, snickering. “You know, I'm surprised the Daily Prophet hasn't reported all these attacks yet,” he went on thoughtfully. “I don’t know how Dumbledore’s letting all of this slide. Father's always said old Dumbledore's the worst thing that's ever happened to this place. Thing is, I don’t know if he’s really that bad… He is the most powerful wizard, and you have to respect him for that... Maybe he’s not doing anything because he also wants mudbloods to go home… Don’t see why he would let slime like that Creevey in in the first place, though.”

Michael clapped his giant hand to his mouth, as Harry reached his arm out towards him. 

Draco didn’t seem to notice. He started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of Colin: “Harry, can I have your picture, Harry? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Harry?” 

He dropped his hands and looked at them. 

“Honestly, what’s the matter with you… I’m telling you, you need to stop eating all that junk…”

Harry gave a weak sort of laugh, as Michael doubled over. 

Draco seemed satisfied enough. 

“Father won't tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened though. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it'll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing... last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died.”

Harry’s and Michael’s big jaws almost fell off their faces. 

Draco waved his hand, “this time, the heir of Slytherin is much smarter. He’s petrifying them instead of killing them. After all, apparently the school was going to be shut down the last time. And all the heir wants is for the mudbloods to leave. If you’re asking me, I don’t know what all the fuss is about.” 

“D'you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?” 

“Oh, yeah... whoever it was, they were expelled,” said Draco. “They're probably still in Azkaban.” 

“Azkaban?” said Harry, puzzled. 

“Azkaban, the wizard prison, Goyle,” said Malfoy, looking at him in disbelief “Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going backwards.”

He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father says to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he's got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our manor last week?” 

Harry tried to force Goyle's dull face into a look of concern. 

“Yeah…” said Draco. “Luckily, they didn't find much. Father's got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we've got our own secret chamber under the drawing-room floor.”

Harry was wondering why Draco would be saying all this to his two stupid friends. Wasn’t he at all worried that they might tell anyone? Yet again, they’d probably would have forgotten about it in an hour anyway. And they were as loyal as two big, fat, dumb dogs can be. 

“Ow…” another wave of churning passed over Michael, as he grasped his stomach in pain. 

Harry looked at him. His expression fell. Crabbe’s hair was now turning a dark shade of red, and his hands were shrinking. Time was up. 

Harry looked at Draco quickly, he didn’t seem to notice. “Whatever… father’s not going to let the ministry find anything. Those blubbering idiots would miss anything suspicious even if it was right under their noses...” 

Michael looked at Harry. He noticed that his scar was starting to appear on his forehead. He pointed at his head. 

“I say, by the time they catch the heir of Slytherin every Muggle-born in the school will be petrified.” 

Harry and Michael stood up quickly, turning away from Draco.

“Are you kidding me? What’s wrong with you now?” 

“I’m going to throw up again,” Michael’s voice was getting higher, but it added validity to his claim. Draco raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m going to take him to the hospital wing…” Harry said quickly, as they shuffled towards the Slytherin door. 

“That’s if you manage to find it,” Draco shouted across the common room with a sneer. 

Harry and Michael dashed up the stairs out of the dungeons. By the time they got out they were back to their original size, holding their pants up as they ran up the stairs. 

It felt unusual being so small again. At one point Michael almost overestimated the size of his legs and tripped. Luckily Harry managed to catch him by his oversized robe. 

Once they made it to Myrtle’s bathroom, they sank to the floor and tried to catch their breaths. 

“That was awful… never again…” Harry panted. 

“I felt like my insides were shrinking… I’m actually going to be sick…” 

“At least we know now that it wasn’t Draco… it’s good to hear that he doesn’t want Muggle-borns dead either.” 

“And now we know that his father forbade him from talking to us…”

“Do you think we should tell Hermione?” 

The two of them put on their own robes, and made their way to the library. Sure enough, Hermione was still there. She was scribbling notes for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Lockhart’s books spread open, taking up the whole table. 

Harry approached her bravely, “it isn’t Draco,” he said. 

Hermione stopped what she was doing. Her head rose up from her books. 

“We’ve finished your Polyjuice Potion, and spoke to him. He isn’t the heir of Slytherin.”

There was a drawn out moment of silence, before Hermione snapped her book shut and rose up. Harry thought she was about to walk away from them, until she said. “Then did he tell you who was?” 

Both of them shook their heads. And so they told her everything that Draco told them, save the stuff about his father and the Ministry. 

“I’m surprised you’re still alive. That potion is very easy to mess up. I’m impressed,” she said, as they made their way down the corridor. “Now, if it’s not Draco, then who can it be…” 

As soon as they reached the staircases, Hermione said, “I’m doing further reading on this. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know…” with that, she climbed the stairs up to the Gryffindor tower. 

Harry and Michael went down to the dungeons. On their way down they spotted the real Crabbe and Goyle, looking confused, wandering back to the Slytherin common room in their socks. 

“Did Madam Pomfrey fix you up?” Draco asked them, as they came through the door. “Where are your shoes?”

The both of them shrugged as Harry and Michael squeezed in behind them. 

“I can’t remember,” Crabbe said stupidly.

“Whatever… I don’t care. Come play Exploding Snap.” 

Harry and Michael both breathed a sigh of relief. They were thinking the exact same thing;

‘Thank god they’re both so stupid.’

* * *

The empty castle should’ve been a delight for Filch; no kids running around, leaving muddy footsteps behind them; no one breaking rules and being noisy; yet he was so aggravated, shouting profanities a floor above Harry and Michael so loudly that the both of them could hear. “I’ve had just about enough!” He roared, “That’s it, I’m going to Dumbledore…” 

Confused, the two of them rushed up the steps to see what was going on. Had there been another attack? 

When they reached the place where Mrs. Norris was attacked, they saw a flood of water seeping out of the out-of-order girls’ bathroom. 

“Myrtle,” Harry muttered. “Wait here in case he comes back…” 

Cautiously, he tiptoed over the puddles towards the door; the closer he got, the louder the choked sobs emerging from it echoed. 

The bathroom was completely flooded. 

Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet. 

“What's up, Myrtle?” said Harry. 

“Who's that?” glugged Myrtle miserably. “Come to throw something else at me?” 

Harry waded across to her stall and said, “Why would I throw something at you?”

“Don't ask me,” Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me…” 

“But it can't hurt you if someone throws something at you,” said Harry, reasonably. “I mean, it'd just go right through you, wouldn't it?” 

He had said the wrong thing. 

Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked, “Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it! Ten points if you can get it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don't think!” 

“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harry.

“I don't know... I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head,” said Myrtle, glaring at them. “It's over there, it got washed out…” 

Harry looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up.

Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just make out the name “T. M. Riddle” in smudged ink.

“What’s in it,” Myrtle suddenly said, sniffling. Tears were still rolling down her face. 

Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There wasn't the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel's birthday, or dentist, half-past three. “He never wrote in it,” said Harry, disappointed.

“Oh good… just another useless diary that someone got for Christmas, decided not to write in and thought it’d be more amusing to throw it straight at me!” 

“But this diary is-” 

Before Harry could finish his sentence, Moaning Myrtle shrieked with an almighty siren-like pitch and dived headfirst into her favourite toilet.

“...fifty years old…” 

“Are you sure there’s nothing in there?” Michael asked, as they walked back down towards their common room. They looked at the blank pages, as Harry listed through every single one. 

“T. M. Riddle. Any ideas?” 

“I feel like I heard that name somewhere before…”

Harry closed the book, and quickly hid it in his robe as Professor Lockhart emerged; the last thing he needed was him thinking it was his diary and trying to see what he was writing about. 

“Oh, hello there Harry... Michael! Lovely day?”

“Hmm…” Harry said. 

“Don’t take the book out till we get back to the dormitory,” Michael said to Harry. “If Lockhart’s here Cedric’s got to be nearby too.” 

The two of them sat on Harry’s bed, the curtain drawn around them. They stared down at the first page, not knowing where to start. 

“Maybe we’re looking too deep into this…” Harry said. “Maybe it was just a stupid diary T. M. Riddle got for Christmas and couldn’t be bothered to fill in, like Myrtle said?” 

“But how would a diary this old be found at Hogwarts, let alone thrown by someone for no reason. Besides… I remember that name from somewhere… let me think…” Michael mused for a moment. 

Harry’s eyes widened. “That’s it! Ron said something about having to polish T. M. Riddle’s trophy twice after belching slugs all over it!”

Michael’s eyes widened. “We have to go to the trophy room…”

The next day, they hurried off down the hallways, running down the stairs and almost taking out Filch on the way. All they could hear was his shrieks fading behind them. 

They stumbled down the last few steps and made it to the trophy room. 

“There’s so many,” Michael muttered. “Where do we start?”

Harry walked past the Quidditch trophies, smiling once he saw his father’s name on one of the shields. Michael called Harry over. 

“Here it is.” 

It was in the corner, presented out of sight, like it was shoved aside to make room for newer trophies. 

“Special Award for Services to the School.” 

Michael and Harry both glanced at each other. 

“He was awarded for something fifty years ago?”

“Special Services to the School…” Michael muttered. “The chamber was opened fifty years ago. What if… he found the person behind the attacks? Maybe this diary holds all the answers, Harry. But how can we read it...” 

“Could it perhaps be invisible writing? Maybe there’s a spell or a password that can make it appear?” Harry suddenly looked excited. 

They decided to consult Hermione. 

“This diary must hold all the answers. It’s no coincidence that you should find it now, that the Chamber of Secrets has been open again…. His diary would probably tell us everything... where the Chamber is, and how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in it! The person who's behind the attacks this time wouldn't want that lying around, would they?” Hermione spoke quickly. 

“And how do you propose we read it when we can’t even see what’s written inside?” Harry asked. 

“It might be invisible ink!” she whispered. 

She tapped the diary three times and said, “Aparecium!” 

Nothing happened. 

Undaunted, Hermione shoved her hand back into her bag and pulled out what appeared to be a bright red eraser. 

“It's a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” she said. She rubbed hard on January first. 

Nothing happened.

“What if there really is a secret password?” Michael asked. 

“What d’you suppose it’ll be?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. 

“Chamber of Secrets…” Michael spoke to the diary. Nothing happened. “Speak Parseltongue to it, Harry…” 

He tried, but nothing came out. “I can’t… I don’t know how... it’s as if I have to be face to face with a snake...” 

“I doubt it’ll be in Parseltongue,” Hermione said quickly. “What if it’s…” she paused and leaned forward, “Mudblood…”

Nothing happened once again. Harry flipped through the pages to make sure nothing new had appeared. 


	11. T. M. Riddle’s Diary

Harry couldn't explain, even to himself, why he didn't just throw Riddle's diary away. 

The fact was that even though he knew the diary was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he'd had when he was very small, and had half forgotten. 

But this was absurd. He'd never had friends before Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that. 

* * *

Soon came February. The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood. 

“The moment their acne clears up, they'll be ready for repotting again,” Harry heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. “And after that, it won't be long until we're cutting them up and stewing them. You'll have Mrs. Norris back in no time.”

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her nerve, thought Harry. It must be getting riskier and riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster, whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to hibernate for another fifty years…

Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn't take this cheerful view. He was still convinced that Harry was the guilty one, that he had “given himself away” at the Dueling Club. 

Peeves wasn't helping matters; he kept popping up in the crowded corridors singing “Oh, Potter, you rotter . . .” now with a dance routine to match. 

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks stop. Harry overheard him telling Professor McGonagall so while the Slytherins were lining up for Transfiguration.

“I don't think there'll be any more trouble, Minerva,” he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him. 

“You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won't say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing…” He tapped his nose again and strode off. 

Lockhart's idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth. 

Harry hadn't had much sleep because of a late running Quidditch practice the night before, and he hurried down to the Great Hall, slightly late. He thought, for a moment, that he'd walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the Slytherin table, where half the students sitting looked sickened. Cedric Anderson, on the other hand, was bursting with excitement. 

“What's going on?” Harry asked them, sitting down and wiping confetti off his bacon. 

Michael nodded toward the teacher’s table. 

Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. 

From where he sat, Harry could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall's cheek. 

Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a large beaker of Skele-Gro. 

“Happy Valentine's Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all... and it doesn't end here! Please, Cedric… take it away...”

Cedric stood up, clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. They had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps. 

“Our friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Cedric proudly. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines!” Proud of his delivery, Cedric bowed and sat back down. 

“And the fun doesn't stop here!” Lockhart announced, “I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've ever met, the sly old dog!”

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. 

Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

“How did I do? Was I loud enough Vicky, did everyone hear me?” They heard Cedric from across the Slytherin table. Michael was shaking his head with embarrassment. 

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs caught up with Harry. 

“Oy, you! 'Arty Potter!” shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry. Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line of first years, which happened to include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape. 

The dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by kicking people's shins, and reached him before he'd gone two paces. 

“I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Arry Potter in person,” he said, twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way. 

“Not here,” Harry hissed, trying to escape.

“Stay still!” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of Harry's bag and pulling him back. 

“Let me go!” Harry snarled, tugging. 

With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything. 

Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up before the dwarf started singing, causing something of a holdup in the corridor.

“What's going on here?” came a cold, drawling voice. It was Draco. 

Harry started stuffing everything feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to get away before Draco and his friends could hear his musical valentine. 

“What's all this commotion?” said another familiar voice as Percy Weasley arrived. 

Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but the dwarf seized him around the knees and brought him crashing to the floor.

“Right,” he said, sitting on Harry's ankles. “Here is your singing valentine: 

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, His hair is as dark as a blackboard. 

I wish he was mine, he's really divine, The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.” 

Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the spot. 

Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth. 

“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now,” he said, shooing some of the younger students away. “And you, Malfoy-” 

Harry, glancing over, saw Draco stoop and snatch up something. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry realized that he'd got Riddle's diary. 

A hush fell over the onlookers. Ginny was staring from the diary to Harry, looking terrified.

“Give that back,” said Harry quietly, reaching his hand out for it.

Draco looked at him. His sneer faded from his face. 

“Ginny Weasley,” Pansy Parkinson, who was behind Draco, seized the valentine card that the dwarf dropped whilst Harry was wrestling with it. “Aww look at that, Potter’s got himself a girlfriend…”

Though, to her dismay, Draco was ignoring her. 

“Draco…” Harry kept up his outstretched hand, he didn’t want to fight him. Not here. Not now. 

“Don’t… keep it, Malfoy,” Pansy hissed, “I want to see what Potter’s written…”

“As a school Prefect…” Percy Weasley trailed off, as Draco sauntered towards Harry, unusually close, pushing the diary to his chest. 

He glanced sideways at Ginny Weasley. “Don’t think famous Harry Potter liked your valentine card very much…” 

Without saying another word, he turned and marched off.

Harry held the diary, frozen to the spot. What on earth just happened. 

Ginny Weasley turned bright red, not unlike the shade of her hair. Tears were welling up in her eyes. 

“Off to class!” Percy Weasley threw his arms up, “go on, nothing to see here…”

It wasn't until they had reached Professor Flitwick's class that Harry noticed something rather odd about Riddle's diary. All his other books were drenched in scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it. 

Later on in the dormitory he tried to point this out to Michael, but Michael was looking at a valentine’s card, that Harry never realized he got. 

“Who’s that from?”

“N- no one…” Michael quickly put it between pages of his Potions book and snapped it shut. 

“Anyway…” Harry didn’t dwell much on it. He had more pressing matters on his mind. “The diary. It soaked up all the ink…” 

Michael got off his bed, and went to sit next to Harry. Harry showed him the perfectly clean pages, compared to his blotted Lockhart book. 

“Maybe it’s a communication journal of some sort? You can bewitch two books and link them together, and no matter how far away they are, what you write in one will show up in the other…” 

“If that’s the case wouldn’t there be something written in it already?” Harry asked.

“Not if no one’s written a reply.” 

So that evening, when everyone had gone to bed, Harry decided that he would try to write something. It wouldn’t hurt to try. 

He sat at his four-poster, opened up the Diary and dipped his quill in some ink. 

He hovered his hand over the pages, not knowing what to write. A blot fell off his quill onto the parchment. The scarlet ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished.

Excited, Harry loaded up his quill a second time and wrote, “Hello. My name is Harry Potter.” 

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without trace. 

Then, at last, something happened. Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Harry had never written. 

“Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?” 

These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry had started to scribble back. 

“Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.” He waited eagerly for Riddle's reply.

“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled, blotting the page in his excitement. So it wasn’t what Michael thought it was. It was Riddle’s mind, recorded in the empty pages of the book, like a fragment of a dead man that was speaking to him. 

“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” 

“That's where I am now,” Harry wrote quickly. “I'm at Hogwarts, and horrible stuff's been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

His heart was hammering. 

Riddle's reply came quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew. 

“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned.” 

Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write back. “It's happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who's behind them. Who was it last time?” 

“I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle's reply. “You don't have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him.” 

Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside somebody else's memory? He glanced nervously around the dormitory, everyone was fast asleep. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words forming.

“Let me show you.” 

Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters. “OK” 

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. 

Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a miniscule television screen. 

His hands trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye against the little window, and before he knew what was happening, he was tilting forward; the window was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color and shadow. 

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly into focus. He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore's office... but it wasn't Dumbledore who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen this man before. He didn’t seem to notice he was there. It dawned on him quickly that he was invisible in this world. 

It was a memory. 

There was a knock on the office door. 

“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice. 

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect's badge was glinting on his chest. He was in Slytherin, just like Harry. He was much taller than him, though, but he, too, had jet-black hair. 

“Ah, Riddle,” said the Headmaster. 

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said Riddle. He looked nervous. 

“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I've just been reading the letter you sent me.” 

“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly. 

“My dear boy,” said Dipper kindly, “I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?” 

“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that… to that-”

“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?” said Dippet curiously. 

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly.

“You are Muggle-born?” 

“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch mother.” 

“And are both your parents...?” 

“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me... Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather.” 

Dipper clucked his tongue sympathetically. “The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “Special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…” 

“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and Harry's heart leapt, and he moved closer, scared of missing anything. 

“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy... the death of that poor little girl... You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the er- source of all this unpleasantness…” 

Riddle's eyes had widened.

“Sir... if the person was caught... if it all stopped…” 

“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his chair. “Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?” 

“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly. 

But Harry was sure it was the same sort of “no” that he himself had given Dumbledore. 

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed. “You may go, Tom…” 

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry followed him. 

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. 

Harry could tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed. Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him. 

They didn't see another person until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the marble staircase. 

“What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?” 

Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-year-younger Dumbledore. 

“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle. 

“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…” He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. 

Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit. But to Harry's disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with Snape. 

The torches hadn't been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.

“C'mon... gotta get yeh outta here... C'mon now... in the box…” 

There was something familiar about that voice…

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. 

Harry stepped out behind him. He could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an open door, a very large box next to it. 

“Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply. 

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up. “What yer doin' down here, Tom?” 

Riddle stepped closer. “It's all over,” he said. “I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop.” 

“What d’yeh mean? D’yeh think-”

“I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and-”

“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing against the closed door. From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking. 

“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer. “The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered…” 

“It wasn't him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in the dark passage. “He wouldn'! He never!” 

“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand. 

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of it came something that made Harry let out a long, piercing scream unheard by anyone. 

A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers. 

Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. 

Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, “NOOOOOO!!!” 

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Slytherin dormitory, Riddle's diary lying open on his stomach.

“Harry… Harry where were you?” Michael looked dumbfound. He was wearing his school robes, not his pyjamas. His wand in his hand. 

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, panting. His face was covered in sweat. 

“I… had to go somewhere… and when I came back I saw that your bed was empty and Riddle’s diary was open. And then you’re appeared out of nowhere…” 

“It was Hagrid. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago.”

Michael stared at him, colour draining from his face. “He… he did what?” 

They always knew that Hagrid had an unfortunate liking for large and monstrous creatures. 

During their first year at Hogwarts he had tried to raise a dragon in his little wooden house, and it would be a long time before they forgot the giant, three-headed dog he'd christened “Fluffy.” 

And if, as a boy, Hagrid had heard that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle, Harry was sure he'd have gone to any lengths for a glimpse of it. He'd probably thought it was a shame that the monster had been cooped up so long, and thought it deserved the chance to stretch its many legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old Hagrid trying to fit a leash and collar on it. But he was equally certain that Hagrid would never have meant to kill anybody.

Harry half wished he hadn't found out how to work Riddle's diary. 

“Anyway, where did you have to go?” Harry asked. 

“N- no where. It doesn’t matter…” he quickly began to change. “Get some sleep, Harry. We both need it…” 

Harry looked at him as he got into bed, propped up on his elbow. Maybe he’d care more about what Michael was doing if what he’d just seen wasn’t ringing through his mind. He fell on his back, feeling drowsy, and without even putting the diary away or getting under the sheets, he drifted off into a deep sleep. 

* * *

“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said Michael, as they made their way to Potions the next day. “Maybe it was some other monster that was attacking people…”

“There’s an awful lot of monsters for a school that’s meant to be so safe,” Harry said. He didn’t want to think about it. It made him sick. But it made sense. Hagrid was expelled for something, he wasn’t allowed to use magic or even teach at Hogwarts. If it wasn’t for Dumbledore, he might have been sent to Azkaban for all he knew. 

“Hagrid was lurking around Knockturn Alley, wasn’t he?”

“He was looking for a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent…”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t’ve confined to you the real reason he was there… Maybe we should go talk to him.”

“And say what? Hello, Hagrid… Are you by any chance setting a spider on the loose for the second time, knowing that it’s killed someone fifty years ago?”

Michael shrugged. Now that Harry said it, why would Hagrid knowingly do something like this, he didn’t want anyone dead. 

“Maybe the spider got in by itself somehow. Maybe it can turn invisible. Either way we have to speak to him, he might know something important.” 

“I don’t know…” Harry sighed. He didn’t want to believe that Hagrid had anything to do with this. His stomach churned just thinking about it.

In the end, they decided that they would not say anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack, and as more and more days went by with no whisper from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful that they would never need to talk to him about why he had been expelled. 

It was now nearly four months since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick had been petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to think that the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for good. 

Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Potter, you rotter” song, Ernie Macmillan asked Harry quite politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in Herbology one day, and in March several of the Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in greenhouse three. 

This made Professor Sprout very happy.

“The moment they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll know they're fully mature,” she told Harry. “Then we'll be able to revive those poor people in the hospital wing.” 

The second years were given something new to think about during their Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year. Harry wanted to pass up Potions, until he saw that it was mandatory. 

“Care of Magical Creatures,” Michael circled with his quill. “Divination might be useful… Study of Ancient Runes…”

Harry decided to pick whatever Michael was picking. The only thing he was good at was Quidditch. And nothing on the curriculum peaked his interest. 

They heard that Hermione from the Gryffindor table had chosen every subject from the list. 

Draco was complaining that Alchemy was only for sixth and seventh years, and that all of the subjects available for them were boring. 

Crabbe and Goyle ended up choosing whatever Draco told them to. 

Harry was more worried about the coming up Quidditch match than his future subjects. Cedric had been pestering them all month, telling them that they had to beat Ravenclaw or else. Training was intense, but Harry was enjoying it. Now that the attacks have stopped he felt like he could relax and focus on the match. 

“The bludger has been checked, it shouldn’t attack you this time,” Cedric patted his shoulder. “Catch the snitch before Ravenclaw can score. And you, Draco… get your head in the game. Don’t get distracted. I know that we’re so much better than the other teams, that you don’t even expect the Quaffle to get anywhere near the Slytherin hoops, but you always have to be alert just in case.” 

Alas, Harry’s cheerful mood didn’t last that long. When he made his way back to the locker rooms to change, he found his bag tipping out of his locker, which had been ripped open so violently that the metal door swung off by one hinge. His books were littered across the floor, his ink bottle leaking over his timetable. His cloak was on the other side of the room, his pockets turned inside out. 

Draco almost walked into Harry. He paused behind him, just as stunned by the mess as he was. 

“Who could have done this…” Harry said absent-mindedly. He began to pick up his books in a hurry, shoving them into his bag. 

It could have been anyone… Anyone had access to the locker rooms… 

Draco didn’t say anything. He picked up Harry’s robe off his side of the bench, and moved it over so he could get changed. 

“Oh no…” Harry whispered to himself, his face losing colour. “Damn it…” 

Draco glanced over, pulling on his robes. 

Cedric and Raphael came striding in. Cedric looked pleased. “That was a good practice session, Raphy… I’m very pleased…” he saw Harry rushing around, picking his stuff up anxiously. “What on earth is going on here?”

Before Cedric could say another word, Harry grabbed his robes and bolted out of the door. 

Riddle’s Diary was gone… 

“Gone?” Michael stared at Harry in shock. He rushed to the common room and found him studying with Josh. He was still wearing his Quidditch robes. “Why would anyone want to steal that diary back?” 

“It must’ve been the same person who threw it away. Maybe they wanted it back…” 

“Potter got his diary stolen, huh?” 

It was Pansy Parkinson. 

“Malfoy told me what happened… and by your reaction, you must have something veeeeery important in there that you wouldn’t want anyone to know.” 

“Go away, Parkinson,” Harry snapped. He wasn’t in the mood. Someone had Riddle’s diary. He had a very bad feeling about this. 

“Maybe he’s written about how much he loves that Weasley girl…” Pansy snickered, Bulstrode chortling by her side. “Weasley and Potter, sitting in the tree… K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

Harry pushed past her, storming off into his dormitory. His face flushed, he threw his bag down and began to take off his robes. 

Michael followed soon after. “I’m sure it was someone thinking it’d be funny to read your diary or something… Maybe it’s not as bad as you think it is…”

“Why would someone go out of their way to break open my locker like that and turn all of my stuff inside out just to read my stupid Diary…” 

They sat in silence, thinking. Neither of them had the faintest clue as to who might’ve done it. 

* * *

They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze. 

“Perfect Quidditch conditions!” said Cedric enthusiastically at the Slytherin table, prancing up and down optimistically. 

“Come on, Potter, you need a decent breakfast,” Evalyn nudged him gently. 

Harry had been staring around the packed hall, wondering who the new owner of Riddle's diary might be. 

Josh had been urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn't like the idea. He'd have to tell a teacher all about the diary, and how many people knew why Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago? He didn't want to be the one who brought it all up again.

As he left the Great Hall with Michael to go and collect his Quidditch things, another very serious worry was added to Harry's growing list. 

He had just set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet again. 

“Kill this time... let me rip... tear…” 

He shouted aloud and Michael jumped in alarm like a cat. 

“The voice!” said Harry, looking over his shoulder. “I just heard it again... didn't you?”

“N- no…” Michael said nervously. Hermione was walking past. She glanced over at them, and made her way up the stairs, away from the crowd that pushed outside towards the Quidditch pitch. 

Nervous, his gut wrenching, Harry made his way to the Slytherin locker room. 

Michael was pushing through the crowd, after bidding good luck to Harry. He ended up bumping into a Gryffindor player who was much taller than him. “S- sorry…” he muttered. 

When he looked up, he saw that it was the Gryffindor Seeker, Jonathan Crowe. 

The boy looked at him with his dark eyes. Michael backed away and ended up bumping into someone else. 

“Watch it…” It was Draco. 

“Ah, sorry…” Michael quickly said. Draco looked at him with a scowl. 

Michael tried to smile. “G- good luck with the match…”

Draco opened his mouth to speak. 

Michael didn’t know what came over him. He gripped his fingers in tight fists. “I- I’m sorry if I ever did anything to cause you to hate me… And- And Harry too… I just want you to know we both still care about you-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

Michael expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. He seemed to be in one of the worst moods he had ever seen him. “I don’t care about you and Potter. You have been annoying me all summer with your stupid letters. Can’t believe that you’d be friends with those mudbloods, too, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were one yourself. It’s a shame that the heir of Slytherin can’t get to you… Now move out of my way, before I curse you…” 

Michael didn’t know what to say. He expected Draco to think it was funny, to point and laugh at him or to ignore him completely. He didn’t expect… this… 

He pushed past Jonathan Crowe, who was apparently listening in, and made his way back towards the castle. Only when he was alone, he let the tears come. He didn’t know why he was crying, but he just couldn’t help himself. Not knowing where his feet were carrying him, he made his way up the stairs. 

* * *

Harry changed into emerald quickly, Cedric shouting, “come on, Potter. It’s almost time!”

They made their way out of the locker room. There was still some time left before the match was to start, and they saw the Ravenclaw team warming up on their brooms. 

Harry saw Draco. His face was so dark that he thought he might have just killed someone. 

Harry rose up on his Nimbus 2001. He gave a few loops as Evalyn and Cole chanted “Slytherin! Slytherin!”

The Slytherins at the stands must’ve heard them too. They chanted along, getting louder and louder. 

“SLYTHERIN! SLYTHERIN!!”

Harry’s smile faded when he saw Professor McGonagall half marching, half running across the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone. 

Harry's heart dropped like a stone. 

"Silence!” The chants faded. Everyone’s expressions of excitement dropped. 

“This match has been cancelled," Professor McGonagall called through the megaphone, addressing the packed stadium. 

There were boos and shouts. Cedric Munroe, looking devastated, landed and ran toward Professor McGonagall without getting off his broomstick. 

“But, Professor! You can’t!” he shouted. “We've got to play…”

Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to shout through her megaphone: “All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please!” 

Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned Harry over to her. “Potter, I think you'd better come with me…” 

Wondering how she could possibly suspect him this time, he tried to keep up with her as they set off toward the castle. 

Some of the students swarming around them were grumbling about the match being canceled; others looked worried. 

Harry followed Professor McGonagall back into the school and up the marble staircase. But he wasn’t taken to anybody's office this time. 

“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor McGonagall in a surprisingly gentle voice as they approached the infirmary. “There has been another attack... another double attack.” 

Harry's insides did a horrible somersault. Professor McGonagall pushed the door open and they entered.

Madam Pomfrey was bending over Hermione Granger. Her hand was outstretched, like she was once holding something in front of her face. 

On the bed next to her, his long red hair draping to the floor like blood, lay Michael, his eyes wide, looking like a pearlesque statue. 

Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach. He opened his mouth, but no noise came out. 

“I can’t believe it,” Madam Pomfrey breathed, “they’re attacking pure-bloods now… nobody is safe…” 

“How… Where…” Harry muttered, approaching his bed. He looked from Michael’s white face to Hermione’s. 

“They were found near the library,” said Professor McGonagall. “I don't suppose you can explain this? It was on the floor next to them…” She was holding up a small, circular mirror.

Harry shook his head slowly. Why was Michael near the library? Wasn’t he in the stands, waiting to watch the Quidditch match? 

That’s when Professor Snape appeared. He was as white as the petrified students. “Another attack?” 

McGonagall nodded briskly. Harry had never seen her so worried. “Take Mr. Potter down to the Slytherin common room…” 

Harry thought he’d imagined it at first, but Draco was by Professor Snape’s side. He looked just as sick as Harry felt. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” Professor McGonagall enquired. Draco caught eyes with Harry, before looking towards their transfiguration teacher. 

Harry was forced to snap out of it. 

“Follow me…” Snape said darkly. 

He tried to keep up with his strides as they neared the dungeons. The corridors were completely isolated; the rest of the school were ushered into their common rooms, there wasn’t a single student or teacher in sight. 

“I- I didn’t do it, Professor…” Harry stammered, as if it wasn’t obvious. He was on the Quidditch pitch, with hundreds of witnesses. He had an alibi now. 

“I know,” Snape said, stopping sharply in front of the Slytherin common room door. “Pure-blood…”

The door opened, and when they walked in, the room was packed. Everyone looked at Snape and Harry, confusion written on their faces. 

“There has been another attack,” Snape began. “Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born from Gryffindor…” 

Harry saw a few Slytherins smirking, Pansy Parkinson being one of them. 

“And… Michael Munroe… Pure-blood Slytherin.”

Everyone’s faces dropped. Even Pansy Parkinson’s sneer evaporated from her face. 

“Apparently, the heir of Slytherin is back at it again. This time, they’re not discriminating…” 

Harry didn’t know what to make of this. How could this be? He thought the heir of Slytherin was only after Muggle-borns. Slytherins had felt safe and sound in the wake of the Chamber of Secrets. They felt untouchable. Not only were they pure-blood, but they were in the house of Salazar Slytherin himself. And now one of theirs has been petrified. 

“For the safety of all students, you shall be escorted to your classes by a teacher. You will not be allowed to go anywhere unless accompanied by an adult. No one is to leave their common room after hours. If another attack takes place…” his eyes scanned the pale faces of students, “...you can say goodbye to Hogwarts.”

With that, Snape turned around and left. Muttering filled the common room. Harry could make out nervousness in the voices around him. He didn’t know what to do with himself. 

He went up to his dormitory and saw Cheshire on Michael’s bed. He looked at Harry with curious eyes. 

“You won’t see him for a while,” Harry said sadly. 

He had never felt so alone at Hogwarts. 

The next day Harry managed to convince Professor Lockhart to take him down to the Hospital Wing. Eager to play the part of a hero, and let Harry see his best friend out of the generosity of his heart, he lead the way down the corridor. “I am so very sorry, Harry… Oh if only I was there… I could have saved Miss Granger and Mr. Munroe. How very unfortunate…” 

Harry wished that he’d walk faster. He didn’t want to spend more time with him than he had to. 

When they knocked, Mrs. Pomfrey opened the door wide enough to let her head through. “What are you doing here?”

Professor Lockhart showed his brilliant teeth, “not to worry, I’m escorting him. He wants to see his friend.” 

Madam Pomfrey stood there, looking reluctant. She let out a sigh and nodded her head. “Okay, fine. Not long, though.”

When Harry walked in, who he saw by Michael’s bed had surprised him. 

It was Draco. 

He was looking at Michael with an expression Harry couldn’t read. As soon as he saw him come in, he stood up quickly. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey walked over to him, “Professor Lockhart might as well escort you to lunch whilst he’s here. Don’t want this place to get crowded…” 

Harry stood a few paces away from the beds. Draco looked straight at him as he strode past. 

“Come along, young Draco…”

“I don’t need to be escorted like a toddler…” Draco snarled. 

“Now now, watch yourself… The heir of Slytherin is attacking Slytherins too! No one is safe… no one… unless of course, you’re with me,” he patted his shoulder merrily. The blond boy’s expression was nothing short of sour as they left. 

Harry walked over to Michael’s bed, and sat down in the empty chair. He didn’t know what to say. Not like Michael would hear him. He felt all the courage he had left drain out of him. He realized that he couldn’t go on by himself. He needed his friends. 

“Why did you go back to the castle…” he muttered, “why did it have to be you…” 

He glanced towards Hermione. He remembered how she snuck off up the stairs when everyone was going outside for the Quidditch match. But what were they doing with that mirror? 

That evening the common room was deserted. Everyone rushed off into their dormitories. Harry had never seen the Slytherin house so quiet. 

He was staring into the dancing flames in the fireplace. What would he do. What could he do?

A thought struck him. Hagrid. 

He jumped to his feet and rushed down the steps towards his dormitory. The only way he was going to get past all of the teachers guarding the corridors, was by using his invisibility cloak. It lay, at the bottom of his wardrobe untouched, the whole year. Now would be the perfect time to use it. 

In his sudden excitement, he hadn’t noticed that someone was making their way up the steps and ended up flying straight into them. 

“Watch it!” it was Draco. 

“Sorry…” Harry gasped. 

Draco suddenly looked nervous when he saw who it was that ran into him. 

Harry noticed. 

“Draco…” he finally said. 

“What?” he replied. His voice was shaky, like he’d be murdered for talking to him. 

“What were you doing… at the hospital wing?”

Draco paused. He didn’t know what to say.

“I saw you. You came to see Michael, didn’t you…” Harry said. “You obviously care. Otherwise… why would you…”

“I snapped at him,” Draco suddenly admitted. Harry wasn’t sure if he just imagined it, or there was a look of guilt on his face. “I was angry. And I shouted at him… at the Quidditch match. I told him his letters were annoying, and how I wish he’d be attacked. He looked like he was going to cry, and ran off towards the castle…”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. 

“It’s my fault. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” he suddenly hissed. “You think I’m enjoying this? It was funny at first, watching mudbloods get petrified… but then it dawned on me how cruel it was… father kept telling me not to interfere, to keep my distance away from you. He was so angry when he found out what happened last year… told me not to associate with you, that I might get killed on another stupid adventure…” he looked at Harry. It was as if everything he ever wanted to say to him gushed out of his mouth all at once. “You think I like hanging around with a bunch of idiots like Crabbe and Goyle? Of course I wanted to write back to Michael... Of course I care… I’m just…”

“Scared…” Harry whispered softly. He saw it in his eyes. What was a hard, spiteful shell on the outside, contained a nervous wreck of a boy, whom just wanted to please his father and stay safe at all cost. Harry had never seen him this vulnerable before. Draco stammered, as if he wanted to deny it. But he just couldn’t.

“Also… when they were attacked,” Draco began quickly, “Michael held this in his hand,” Draco pulled out the dagger from his robes. The dagger that his parents gave Michael for Christmas. “Madam Pomfrey let me take it. He probably thought he could kill that thing before it petrified him.” 

Harry looked at the silver dagger in Draco’s hand thoughtfully. 

After a moment of silence, Harry finally said, “I think I know who might’ve done it…” 

“Hagrid? That’s absurd…” Draco whispered as they made their way up the dungeon steps under Harry’s invisibility cloak. “He’s a total oaf sometimes but he couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried.” 

“I don’t think he did it on purpose…” Harry whispered back. “We have to talk to him, it’s the only lead we’ve got left.” 

The journey through the dark and deserted castle corridors wasn't enjoyable. 

Harry, who had wandered the castle at night several times before, had never seen it so crowded after sunset. 

Teachers, prefects, and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs, staring around for any unusual activity. Their Invisibility Cloak didn't stop them making any noise, and there was a particularly tense moment when Draco almost tripped over the ends of the cloak only yards from the spot where Snape stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at almost exactly the moment Draco yelped. 

It was with relief that they reached the oak front doors and eased them open. 

It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the lit windows of Hagrid's house and pulled off the cloak only when they were right outside his front door. 

Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open. They found themselves face-to-face with him aiming a crossbow at them. Fang the boarhound barked loudly behind him.

“Oh,” he said, lowering the weapon and staring at them. “What're you two doin' here?” he squinted, “Draco? Yer friends with Harry again?” 

“What's that thing for?” said Draco, ignoring his question and pointing at the crossbow as they stepped inside. 

“Nothin' nothin’” Hagrid muttered. “I've bin expectin'... doesn' matter. Sit down. I'll make tea…” 

He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a nervous jerk of his massive hand. 

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harry. “Did you hear about Michael and Hermione?” 

“Oh, I heard, all righ',” said Hagrid, a slight break in his voice. He kept glancing nervously at the windows. 

He poured them both large mugs of boiling water (he had forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting a slab of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock on the door.

Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. 

Harry and Draco exchanged panicstricken looks, then threw the Invisibility Cloak back over themselves and retreated into a corner. 

Hagrid checked that they were hidden, seized his crossbow, and flung open his door once more. 

“Good evening, Hagrid.” It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly serious, and was followed by a second, very odd-looking man. The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he carried a lime-green bowler.

“He’s the Minister of Magic,” whispered Draco so only Harry could hear. "Cornelius Fudge…”

Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into one of his chairs and looked from Dumbledore to Cornelius Fudge. 

“Bad business, Hagrid,” said Fudge in rather clipped tones. “Very bad business. Had to come. Three attacks on Muggle-borns, and now a Pure-blood is petrified? Things've gone far enough. Ministry's got to act.” 

“I never,” said Hagrid, looking imploringly at Dumbledore. “You know I never, Professor Dumbledore, sir…” 

“I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my full confidence,” said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge. 

“Look, Albus,” said Fudge, uncomfortably. “Hagrid's record's against him. Ministry's got to do something. The school governors have been in touch…” 

“Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid away will not help in the slightest,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were full of a fire Harry had never seen before.

“Look at it from my point of view,” said Fudge, fidgeting with his bowler. “I'm under a lot of pressure. Got to be seen to be doing something. Lord Munroe was ever so angry when he heard news about his son, he demanded for something to be done. If it turns out it wasn't Hagrid, he'll be back and no more said. But I've got to take him. Got to. Wouldn't be doing my duty-” 

“Take me?” said Hagrid, who was trembling. “Take me where?” 

“For a short stretch only,” said Fudge, not meeting Hagrid's eyes. “Not a punishment, Hagrid, more a precaution. If someone else is caught, you'll be let out with a full apology…”

“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid. 

Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the door. Dumbledore answered it. Harry got an elbow to the ribs; he'd let out an audible gasp. 

Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid's hut, followed by a very fat, very angry looking Lord Munroe. Fang started to growl.

“Already here, Fudge,” Mr. Malfoy said approvingly. “Good, good…”

Harry was aware of Draco shaking next to him. He did not expect to see his father here. 

“What're you doin' here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get outta my house!” 

“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being inside your... er... d'you call this a house?” said Lucius Malfoy, sneering as he looked around the small cabin. “I simply called at the school and was told that the headmaster was here. Lord Munroe wanted to pay a visit in person, since his son fell victim to these… unfortunate circumstances…”

From what little Harry knew about Lord Munroe, he knew for sure that he did not care about Michael in the slightest. His suspicions were proven right once he caught a sneer on Lord Munroe’s chunky face which was visible to only him and Draco. 

“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?” said Dumbledore. He spoke politely, but the fire was still blazing in his blue eyes. 

“Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Malfoy lazily, taking out a long roll of parchment, “but the governors feel it's time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension. You'll find all twelve signatures on it. I'm afraid we feel you're losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two more this afternoon, wasn't it? Michael Munroe? Pure-blood? How am I supposed to feel knowing my son is in immediate danger?”

“Oh, now, see here, Lucius,” said Fudge, looking alarmed, “Dumbledore suspended? No, no... last thing we want just now.”

“The appointment or suspension of the headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. “And as Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks-” 

“See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can't stop them,” said Fudge, whose upper lip was sweating now, “I mean to say, who can?” 

“That remains to be seen,” said Mr. Malfoy with a nasty smile. “But as all twelve of us have voted-” 

Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing the ceiling. “An' how many did yeh have ter threaten an' blackmail before they agreed, Malfoy, eh?” he roared.

“Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid,” said Mr. Malfoy. “I would advise you not to shout at the Azkaban guards like that. They won't like it at all.” 

“Yeh can' take Dumbledore!” yelled Hagrid, making Fang the boarhound cower and whimper in his basket. “Take him away, an' yer son won’ stand a chance! There'll be killin' next!” 

“Calm yourself, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. He looked at Lucius Malfoy. “If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of course step aside.” 

“But-” stuttered Fudge. 

“No!” growled Hagrid.

Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off Lucius Malfoy's cold gray ones. “However,” said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly and clearly so that none of them could miss a word, “you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

For a second, Harry was almost sure Dumbledore’s eyes flickered towards the corner where he and Draco stood hidden.

“Admirable sentiments,” said Malfoy, bowing. “We shall all miss your… er… highly individual way of running things, Albus, and only hope that your successor will manage to prevent any… ah... killings.’”

He strode to the cabin door, opened it and bowed Dumbledore out. 

Fudge, fiddling with his bowler, waited for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid stood his ground, took a deep breath and said carefully, “If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff, all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders. That’d lead ’em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Fudge stared at him in amazement.

“All right, I’m comin’,” said Hagrid, pulling on his moleskin overcoat. But as he was about to follow Fudge through the door, he stopped again and said loudly, “An’ someone’ll need ter feed Fang while I’m away.” 

The door banged shut and Draco pulled the Invisibility Cloak off.

“Father has a point…” Draco said. “What did Dumbledore even do to try and stop the attacks?”

“Are you kidding?” Harry said hoarsely. “They might as well close the school tonight. There’ll be an attack a day with him gone...”

Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door.


	12. Aragog

Summer was creeping over the grounds around the castle; sky and lake alike turned periwinkle blue and flowers large as cabbages burst into bloom in the greenhouses. 

But with no Hagrid visible from the castle windows, striding the grounds with Fang at his heels, the scene didn't look right to Harry; no better, in fact, than the inside of the castle, where things were so horribly wrong. 

Harry and Draco had tried to visit Michael, but visitors were now barred from the hospital wing.

“We're taking no more chances,” Madam Pomfrey told them severely through a crack in the infirmary door. “No, I'm sorry, there's every chance the attacker might come back to finish these people off…” 

With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never before, so that the sun warming the castle walls outside seemed to stop at the mullioned windows. 

There was barely a face to be seen in the school that didn't look worried and tense, and any laughter that rang through the corridors sounded shrill and unnatural and was quickly stifled.

“I can’t believe the ministry only started caring when a pure-blood was attacked,” Harry heard Ron say from a few tables in front of him in Defence Against the Dark Arts, as Professor Lockhart boasted about he could protect the school single-handedly without Professor Dumbledore’s help. 

“Imagine if that idiot decided to apply for Headmaster?” Draco said to Harry. “I think I’d catch the train home before the school’s even shut down.” 

Harry caught Pansy Parkison’s irritated look, as she watched him and Draco whispering between themselves. She clearly didn’t like Draco being friendly with Harry again and avoided him. Draco didn’t seem to care. “I’d say Professor Snape would be a great Headmaster. Nothing’ll get past him.” 

Harry thought that Professor McGonagall was doing a good job as a cover so far. There hadn’t been any attacks yet. 

Harry constantly repeated Dumbledore's final words to himself, “I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me... Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.” But what good were these words? Who exactly were they supposed to ask for help, when everyone was just as confused and scared as they were?

Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was much easier to understand. He told Draco about detention with Snape. How they saw a trail of spiders leading through the forest. 

“Are you mad?” Draco complained, “I’m not going into that forest, we’ll die…”

“Hagrid said that as long as we’re with him or Fang we’d be safe,” Harry explained. 

“Do you think Professor Snape knows something about those spiders?”

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged. “We were almost attacked by a big one but Michael’s cat saved us…”

Draco looked at him, confused. 

“It’s a long story,” Harry shook his head, “anyway, Professor Snape took the dead spider back to the castle. He must’ve dissected it and maybe found something important.” 

“And how do you suppose we find out?” 

The next day, Snape swept past Harry during class, making no comment about Michael’s empty seat and cauldron. He was reading out a list of ingredients for their next potion. 

Draco glanced at Harry, smirked, and raised his hand.

“Sir,” he said loudly. “Sir, why don't you apply for the headmaster's job?”

“Now, now, Malfoy,” said Snape, though he couldn't suppress a thin-lipped smile. “Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the governors. I daresay he'll be back with us soon enough.” 

“Yeah, right,” said Malfoy, smirking. “I expect you'd have father's vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the job. I'll tell father you're the best teacher here, sir…”

Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon, fortunately not spotting Seamus Finnigan from Gryffindor, who was pretending to vomit into his cauldron.

That’s when the bell rang. 

With Snape’s permission, the class packed up and rushed outside, hungry and eager to get out of the cold and humid dungeon. 

“I see Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter are best friends once again?” Snape said, as Draco and Harry stayed behind. Harry thought he heard a tinge of surprise in his tone. “Did Mr. Munroe’s petrification do you some good?” 

“Professor,” Draco started, “I noticed something strange. Spiders have been behaving very…. Unusually lately, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Yes,” Snape said, “but I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, there’s nothing… special about these spiders.”

“But how come they’re all leaving the school one by one? Isn’t it kind of suspicious to you?”

Professor Snape drew his cloak and dawned down on them almost threateningly. “I’m hoping that neither of you are getting ideas… yes, your heroism last year was undeniably… valiant… but with the threat of death lurking through the walls of the school, I wouldn’t be so reckless if I were you…” 

With that, Snape swivelled round and strode out of the classroom.

Both of them followed after Snape, whom was right behind the rest of the class. 

“He’s not Lockhart,” Harry whispered. “He’s not going to fall for compliments so easy…”

“I noticed,” Draco said. “But didn’t you hear… he gave us a clue.” 

“A clue? Why would Professor Snape give us a clue?” Harry looked dumbfounded. 

“Lurking through the walls of the school. What on earth could that mean?”

Harry’s eyes widened. He remembered the voices. Whenever he heard them, it was as if they were coming from the walls. 

He quickly told Draco about the voices and how no one else could hear them on their way out of the dungeons, quietly enough so that Snape wouldn’t hear. Draco thought it was weird. 

“So you hear them right before an attack?”

Harry nodded. “Yes… though I can’t wrap my head around how and why… and what the spiders have to do with it…”

“I suppose we have to see for ourselves.” 

In Herbology, Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the Abyssinian Shrivelfigs. Harry went to tip an armful of withered stalks onto the compost heap and found himself face-to-face with Ernie Macmillan. Ernie took a deep breath and said, very formally, “I just want to say, Harry, that I'm sorry I ever suspected you. I know you'd never attack Michael Munroe, and I apologize for all the stuff I said. We're all in the same boat now, and, well…” He held out a pudgy hand, and Harry shook it.

Draco grunted a laugh. “You really thought Harry was the heir of Slytherin?” 

Ernie looked nervous all of a sudden. Harry didn’t put it past him to suspect Draco Malfoy, too. “No offense, Harry… but you’re not very scary.”

“Non taken,” Harry said blankly. 

Ernie looked like he’d beg to differ. 

“Draco,” Harry elbowed his friend, who was busy making fun of Hannah’s shrivelfig. “Look…”

They both looked towards where Harry pointed. 

Several large spiders were crawling their way in a perfectly uniform line like ants. 

This made Draco jump and yell in a high pitch voice. “Oh my god they’re huge...”

Ernie and Hannah both looked at them, and then looked at the spiders, who scuttled out of a gap in the glass. 

“Hagrid said to follow the spiders.”

“Well, we can’t follow them now…”

Ernie and Hannah were listening curiously. 

At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the class to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harry and Draco lagged behind the others so they could talk out of earshot.

“We'll have to use the Invisibility Cloak again,” Harry told Draco. “We’ll bring Fang, and see where those spiders will take us.” 

To say that Draco looked uncomfortable would be an understatement. He hated bugs with a passion. “Do we have to, though?” 

“Do you want to make up for what you’ve said to Michael or not?” Harry suddenly said. 

Draco looked away. “Fine… but if we end up dying, I’ll kill you…” 

They took their places at the back of Lockhart’s classroom.

Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared at him. Every other teacher in the place was looking grimmer than usual, but Lockhart appeared nothing short of buoyant. 

“Come now,” he cried, beaming around him. “Why all these long faces?” 

“Our friend is petrified!” Draco snarled. 

Lockhart nodded his finger at him, “not for very long, now, Draco. The Mandrakes are growing up quite fast, yes. I bet they can’t wait to see my beaming face once they’re extracted!” 

People swapped exasperated looks.

“Don't you people realize,” said Lockhart, speaking slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, “the danger has passed! The culprit has been taken away…”

“Says who?” said Ron Weasley loudly. 

“My dear young man, the Minister of Magic wouldn't have taken Hagrid if he hadn't been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty,” said Lockhart, in the tone of someone explaining that one and one made two.

“Oh, yes he would,” said Draco sourly, even louder than Ron. 

“I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid's arrest than you do, Mr. Malfoy,” said Lockhart in a self-satisfied tone.

“My father is a Hogwarts governor. I think I know more than you do…”

“Mr. Malfoy!” Lockhart gasped, “don’t make me take points from Slytherin, it would be such a shame…” 

He rolled his eyes. For once, even the Gryffindors agreed with Draco. 

“Hagrid was always rather suspicious to me. I knew he was no good the moment I laid eyes on him, yes. I presented all of my evidence to the Ministry and they took swift action to eradicate him!”

The whole class knew by now that there was no use in arguing with him. It was about as useful as trying to debate a salmon. 

* * *

Harry went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk right after dinner, and spent the evening sitting on it, waiting for the room to clear.

Draco made his way up out of the dormitory. He was holding a valentine’s card. 

“Is that yours?” Harry asked curiously. 

Draco sniggered, “what? No... I saw it poking from under Michael’s pillow.”

“What?” Harry looked wide-eyed. “We shouldn’t be looking through his stuff like that!”

“Relax, at the moment, it’s not like he minds…” 

Harry tried to snatch it from him, but knew soon enough that it was futile. 

Pansy Parkinson was watching them from the leather armchair across the room. “Did that Weasley girl send you another letter! An apology for that horrendous song, perhaps?”

“Shut up,” Draco called across the room. 

Harry stopped struggling and finally caved in. 

Draco opened up the card. 

“I challenge you to a midnight duel?” Draco checked to see if there was anything on the other side. “It’s not signed or anything…” 

“How mysterious…” Harry wondered. He remembered Michael sneaking off somewhere whilst Harry was in Riddle’s diary. Was he actually duelling someone? 

Harry yawned. It was starting to get late, and Pansy and her friends just weren’t budging. 

“How are we going to follow the spiders when Parkinson and her stupid friends are having a sleepover party in the common room.” 

“I thought you liked her now?” Harry was a bit confused. 

“Since when? I never liked her...” Draco put Michael’s card back into the envelope. “She’s annoying… she’s no better than Granger. History of Magic this, Herbology that. Lockhart has such beautiful hair…” he imitated her so loudly, that she must’ve heard from across the room. She sat there scowling. 

It was as if she knew what they were up to and wanted to sit there just to spite them. 

“Also, forget Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkison is your biggest fangirl… Potter, oh Potter… That stupid Potter…” 

She was now going bright red. 

Harry laughed and didn’t even feel bad about it, for all the times that she’s been mean to him. 

Eventually she had enough. “Come on… let's go to bed,” she said to her friends, and they followed her to the girls’ dormitories. 

“That was brilliant,” Harry said. 

“Well, let’s go then.” 

They pulled the invisibility cloak around them, and made their way out of the dungeons.

It was another difficult journey through the castle, dodging all the teachers. 

At last they reached the entrance hall, slid back the lock on the oak front doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any creaking, and stepped out into the moonlit grounds. 

They stumbled down the slimy, weathered grass down to Hagrid’s hut. 

Once they got inside, Harry threw his cloak onto the great big armchair and Fang jumped up with excitement. 

“Come on, Fang. We’re going for a walk,” Draco said, and Fang bounded happily out of the house behind them, dashed to the edge of the forest, and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree. 

Harry took out his wand, murmured, “Lumos!” and a tiny light appeared at the end of it, just enough to let them watch the path for signs of spiders.

Draco did the same. 

There was a trail of spiders making their way into the forest. 

“If I see a spider bigger than this I’m going to run for it,” he said.

“Come on, don’t be such a baby,” Harry began following cautiously.

Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree roots and leaves, they entered the forest. By the glow of Harry's wand, they followed the steady trickle of spiders moving along the path. They walked behind them for about twenty minutes, not speaking, listening hard for noises other than breaking twigs and rustling leaves. 

Then, when the trees had become thicker than ever, so that the stars overhead were no longer visible, and their wands shone alone in the sea of dark, they saw their spider guides leaving the path. Harry paused, trying to see where the spiders were going, but everything outside their little sphere of light was pitch-black. 

He had never been this deep into the forest before. He could vividly remember Hagrid advising him not to leave the forest path last time he'd been in here. But Hagrid was miles away now, probably sitting in a cell in Azkaban, and he had also said to follow the spiders.

“I don’t want to go there,” Draco complained. “What if you-know-who is floating around again… or what if there's a werewolf…”

“We’ve come this far,” Harry said in an exasperated tone, “If you don’t want to carry on, you’re welcome to head back out on your own…” 

“L- let’s go then,” Draco, fists clenched, pushed past Harry into the trees. 

So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders into the trees. They couldn't move very quickly now; there were tree roots and stumps in their way, barely visible in the near blackness. Harry could feel Fang's hot breath on his hand. More than once, they had to stop, so that Harry could crouch down and find the spiders in the wandlight. They walked for what seemed like at least half an hour, their robes snagging on low-slung branches and brambles. After a while, they noticed that the ground seemed to be sloping downward, though the trees were as thick as ever. Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark, making both Harry and Draco jump out of their skins.

“What is it…” Draco grabbed Harry’s sleeve, looking around, petrified. 

“There's something moving over there,” Harry breathed. “Listen... sounds like something big…” 

They listened. Some distance to their right, the something big was snapping branches as it carved a path through the trees.

Draco let out an almighty scream of terror. 

Harry’s eyes widened as he grabbed his arm, “Shut up… shut up…”

Suddenly, to their right, came a brilliant blaze of light, so bright in the darkness that both of them flung up their hands to shield their eyes. 

Fang yelped and tried to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and yelped even louder.

“Is that-” Harry paused. 

“Is what?” 

Harry stumbled towards the light. Draco didn’t think it was a very good idea. “Harry! It’s some kind of monster!”

“It’s Mr. Weasley’s car!” shouted Harry. 

“What?” Draco rushed after him, almost tripping over the foliage beneath. 

Mr. Weasley's car was standing, empty, in the middle of a circle of thick trees under a roof of dense branches, its headlights ablaze.

Draco approached it slowly, a look of disgust on his face, “this is Weasley’s car? What a joke…”

The car let out a mechanical screech of a warning as Draco drew nearer. This made him jump back. “D- don’t tell me we have to fight it…” he pointed his wand at it threateningly. 

“No. I just don’t think it likes you…” Harry muttered, half hoping the other didn’t hear.

“What do we do now?”

Harry thought that the car looked as wild as ever. It was covered in mud and scraped, windows broken and one of the headlights was falling off. 

Fang didn't seem at all keen on it either; he kept close to Draco, and the both of them quivered. 

His breathing slowing down again, Harry stuffed his wand back into his robes.

“These Muggle-lovers never cease to amaze me,” Draco let out shakily. 

Harry squinted around on the floodlit ground for signs of more spiders, but they had all scuttled away from the glare of the headlights. 

“We've lost the trail,” he said. “C'mon, let's go and find them.” 

Draco didn't speak. He didn't move. His eyes were fixed on a point some ten feet above the forest floor, right behind Harry. His face was livid with terror.

Harry didn't even have time to turn around. There was a loud clicking noise and suddenly he felt something long and hairy seize him around the middle and lift him off the ground, so that he was hanging facedown. 

Struggling, terrified, he heard more clicking, and saw Draco’s legs leave the ground, too, heard Fang whimpering and howling; next moment, he was being swept away into the dark trees. Draco’s continuous screams filled the cold air around them. “I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die…” 

Head hanging, Harry saw that what had hold of him was marching on six immensely long, hairy legs, the front two clutching him tightly below a pair of shining black pincers. Behind him, he could hear another of the creatures, no doubt carrying Draco. They were moving into the very heart of the forest. Harry could hear Fang fighting to free himself from a third monster, whining loudly, and Draco struggling and flailing about, but Harry couldn't have yelled even if he had wanted to; he seemed to have left his voice back with the car in the clearing.

He never knew how long he was in the creature's clutches; he only knew that the darkness suddenly lifted enough for him to see that the leaf-strewn ground was now swarming with spiders. 

Craning his neck sideways, he realized that they had reached the ridge of a vast hollow, a hollow that had been cleared of trees, so that the stars shone brightly onto the worst scene he had ever laid eyes on. 

Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the leaves below. Spiders the size of cart horses, eight-eyed, eight-legged, black, hairy, gigantic. 

The massive specimen that was carrying Harry made its way down the steep slope toward a misty, domed web in the very center of the hollow, while its fellows closed in all around it, clicking their pincers excitedly at the sight of its load. 

Harry fell to the ground on all fours as the spider released him. Draco and Fang thudded down next to him. 

Fang wasn't howling anymore, but cowering silently on the spot. Draco was a mirror image of him. 

Harry’s mouth was stretched wide in a kind of silent scream and his eyes were popping.

He suddenly realized that the spider that had dropped him was saying something. It had been hard to tell, because he clicked his pincers with every word he spoke. 

“Aragog!” it called. “Aragog!” 

And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a spider the size of a small elephant emerged, very slowly. There was gray in the black of his body and legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head was milky white. 

He was blind. 

“What is it?” he said, clicking his pincers rapidly. 

“Men,” clicked the spider who had caught Harry. 

“Is it Hagrid?” said Aragog, moving closer, his eight milky eyes wandering vaguely. 

“Strangers,” clicked the spider who had brought Draco. 

“Kill them,” clicked Aragog fretfully. “I was sleeping…” 

“We're friends of Hagrid's,” Harry shouted. His heart seemed to have left his chest to pound in his throat.

Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all around the hollow. 

Aragog paused. “Hagrid has never sent men into our hollow before,” he said slowly. 

“Hagrid's in trouble,” said Harry, breathing very fast. “That's why we've come.” 

“In trouble?” said the aged spider, and Harry thought he heard concern beneath the clicking pincers. “But why has he sent you?” 

Harry thought of getting to his feet but decided against it; he didn't think his legs would support him. So he spoke from the ground, as calmly as he could.

“They think, up at the school, that Hagrid's been setting a… a... something on students. They've taken him to Azkaban.” 

Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around the hollow the sound was echoed by the crowd of spiders; it was like applause, except applause didn't usually make Harry feel sick with fear. 

“But that was years ago,” said Aragog fretfully. “Years and years ago. I remember it well. That's why they made him leave the school. They believed that I was the monster that dwells in what they call the Chamber of Secrets. They thought that Hagrid had opened the Chamber and set me free.” 

“And you... you didn't come from the Chamber of Secrets?” said Harry, who could feel cold sweat on his forehead.

“I!” said Aragog, clicking angrily. “I was not born in the castle. I come from a distant land. A traveler gave me to Hagrid when I was an egg. Hagrid was only a boy, but he cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in the castle, feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid is my good friend, and a good man. When I was discovered, and blamed for the death of a girl, he protected me. I have lived here in the forest ever since, where Hagrid still visits me. He even found me a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown, all through Hagrid's goodness…” 

Harry summoned what remained of his courage. “So you never- never attacked anyone?” 

“Never,” croaked the old spider. “It would have been my instinct, but out of respect for Hagrid, I never harmed a human. The body of the girl who was killed was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any part of the castle but the cupboard in which I grew up. Our kind like the dark and the quiet…” 

“But then... Do you know what did kill that girl?” said Harry. “Because whatever it is, it's back and attacking people again-” His words were drowned by a loud outbreak of clicking and the rustling of many long legs shifting angrily; large black shapes shifted all around him. 

“The thing that lives in the castle,” said Aragog, “is an ancient creature we spiders fear above all others. Well do I remember how I pleaded with Hagrid to let me go, when I sensed the beast moving about the school.” 

“What is it?” said Harry urgently. More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed to be closing in. 

“We do not speak of it!” said Aragog fiercely. “We do not name it! I never even told Hagrid the name of that dread creature, though he asked me, many times.”

Harry didn't want to press the subject, not with the spiders pressing closer on all sides. 

Aragog seemed to be tired of talking. He was backing slowly into his domed web, but his fellow spiders continued to inch slowly toward Harry and Ron. 

“We'll just go, then,” Harry called desperately to Aragog, hearing leaves rustling behind him. 

“Go?” said Aragog slowly. “I think not…” 

“But- but-” 

“My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my command. But I cannot deny them fresh meat, when it wanders so willingly into our midst. Good-bye, friend of Hagrid.”

Harry spun around. 

Feet away, towering above him, was a solid wall of spiders, clicking, their many eyes gleaming in their ugly black heads. Even as he reached for his wand, Harry knew it was no good, there were too many of them, but as he tried to stand, ready to die fighting, a loud, long note sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the hollow. 

Mr. Weasley's car was thundering down the slope, headlights glaring, its horn screeching, knocking spiders aside; several were thrown onto their backs, their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched to a halt in front of Harry and Draco and the doors flew open.

“Come on,” Harry yelled, jumping into the car with Fang. 

“There’s no way I’m-”

“Would you rather stay behind and get eaten?”

Draco shook his head. He looked shaken. 

A spider was now crawling up his back. 

He screamed, “it’s on me… it’s on me…” 

Harry took out his wand. “Hold still!”

It was about as useful as telling a cat to tap-dance. 

Draco was flailing, trying to elbow the thing off his back desperately. “It’s going to eat me! It’s eating me! Oh my god!”

Harry pointed his wand, shouting “Flipendo!”

It hit the spider, sending it flying into a storm of about a hundred more. 

“GET IN!” Harry yelled. 

Draco jumped into the car and the doors slammed shut automatically. 

Draco was looking at the wheel. He was in the driver’s seat. 

“What do I do?” He looked desperately at Harry. 

“Let’s swap,” Harry said, and they shifted seats.

Harry never drove a car before. He didn’t even know which pedal to press. 

“Hurry up!” Draco urged, as a great spider tried to enter through the broken window on his side. 

Harry pushed his foot down on a pedal, gripping the wheel. The car went backwards, knocking off spiders as it went. 

Soon enough he managed to figure out how to go forwards, and they burst through a sea of gigantic spiders, Draco screaming all the way out of the spider’s hollow. Harry let go of the wheel. The car was now driving automatically. 

They were soon crashing through the forest, branches whipping the windows as the car wound its way cleverly through the widest gaps, following a path it obviously knew. 

Harry looked sideways at Draco. He was still frozen in fear. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

Draco let out a squeak, “Y- you don’t think it’s going to take us somewhere even worse?” 

“What can be worse than that?” Harry glanced behind them. They finally lost the spiders. 

They smashed their way through the undergrowth, Fang howling loudly in the back seat, and Harry saw the side mirror snap off as they squeezed past a large oak. 

After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees thinned, and Harry could again see patches of sky. The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly thrown into the windshield. They had reached the edge of the forest. Fang flung himself at the window in his anxiety to get out, and when Harry opened the door, he shot off through the trees to Hagrid's house, tail between his legs. 

Harry got out too, and after a minute or so, Draco seemed to regain the feeling in his limbs and followed, still stiff-necked and staring. 

Harry gave the car a grateful pat as it reversed back into the forest and disappeared from view.

Harry went back into Hagrid's cabin to get the Invisibility Cloak. Fang was trembling under a blanket in his basket.

“I have to say,” Draco seemed to be fading out of it, but his voice was still trembling slightly. “That thing saved our lives…”

“Don’t think Muggles are that bad after all?” Harry laughed, as they went back to the castle under the invisibility cloak. 

“No,” Draco retorted, “it’s magic that did it. I doubt an unenchanted Muggle car would find us in the Forbidden Forest like that.” 

“I suppose you owe a thank you to Mr. Weasley…” 

“Follow the spiders,” said Draco weakly, ignoring Harry’s comment and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Just wait until my father hears about this.” 

“I bet Hagrid thought Aragog wouldn't hurt friends of his,” said Harry quickly. 

“I bet Hagrid thought Fluffy was a little chihuahua… And look at where he is now because of all his pets. In Azkaban!” 

They quietened down as they made their way back through the entrance door. Sneaking past any remaining staff who were patrolling the area, they made their way down into the dungeons, and back to their common room. 

Draco was still shivering. Harry removed the cloak and put it at the bottom of his wardrobe, as Draco sat on Michael’s bed. Cheshire hissed at him. 

“What was the point in all that,” he huffed. “What did we even learn…” 

“That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets,” said Harry, going over to his own bed and sitting down, rubbing his hands. “He was innocent.” 

“Keeping a spider like that for a pet sounds anything but innocent!” Draco snarled, clearly outraged. “If father finds out about this you can say goodbye to Hagrid forever…”

“Y- you won’t tell him… would you?” Harry quickly said. 

“Of course not…” Draco gave a big yawn. “I’m going off to bed. Night…” he strolled off to his own four-poster from across the room. 

Harry wasn’t very sleepy, though. He sat on the edge of his four-poster, thinking hard about everything Aragog had said. The creature that was lurking somewhere in the castle, he thought, sounded like a sort of monster version of Voldemort. Even other monsters didn't want to name it. 

But he and Draco were no closer to finding out what it was, or how it petrified its victims. 

Even Hagrid had never known what was in the Chamber of Secrets. 

Harry swung his legs up onto his bed and leaned back against his pillows, watching the soft green glow dancing along the walls. He couldn't see what else they could do. They had hit dead ends everywhere. 

Riddle had caught the wrong person, the Heir of Slytherin had got off, and no one could tell whether it was the same person, or a different one, who had opened the Chamber this time. 

There was nobody else to ask. Harry lay down, still thinking about what Aragog had said. He was becoming drowsy when what seemed like their very last hope occurred to him, and he suddenly sat bolt upright. 

“Draco,” he hissed through the dark, “Draco-”

Draco had just changed out of his muddy robes into his Pyjamas when he heard Harry hiss his name. “What?” he whispered loudly. 

“Come here!”

Draco walked over to his bed. “What now?”

“I just thought of something… Remember what Aragog said? We know that a girl died last time the chamber was opened. Aragog said that her body was found in the bathroom!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Oh, it’s a long story but… I know a ghost that lives in the girls’ out-of-order bathroom. Her name is Moaning Myrtle.”

“You went to the girls’ bathroom?” Draco squinted. 

“So did you, last year, when we saved Hermione… pay attention…” Harry said quickly, “anyway, if she really is that girl who died fifty years ago, she must’ve seen her killer! She must know something!” 

“And how do you suppose we ask her?” Draco said. 

He was right. It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders. Escaping their teachers long enough to sneak into a girls' bathroom, the girls' bathroom, moreover, right next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be almost impossible. But something happened in their first lesson, Transfiguration, that drove the Chamber of Secrets out of their minds for the first time in weeks. Ten minutes into the class, Professor McGonagall told them that their exams would start on the first of June, one week from today.

“Exams?” complained Ron Weasley. “We're still getting exams?” 

There was a loud bang behind Harry and Draco as Neville Longbottom's wand slipped, vanishing one of the legs on his desk. 

Professor McGonagall restored it with a wave of her own wand, and turned, frowning, to Ron. “The whole point of keeping the school open at this time is for you to receive your education,” she said sternly. “The exams will therefore take place as usual, and I trust you are all studying hard.”

Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harry that there would be exams with the castle in this state. There was a great deal of mutinous muttering around the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl even more darkly. 

“Professor Dumbledore's instructions were to keep the school running as normally as possible,” she said. !And that, I need hardly point out, means finding out how much you have learned this year. Harry looked down at the pair of white rabbits he was supposed to be turning into slippers. What had he learned so far this year? He couldn't seem to think of anything that would be useful in an exam. 

Ron looked as though he'd just been told he had to go and live in the Forbidden Forest. “Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” he asked Seamus Finnigan, holding up his wand, which had just started whistling loudly. 

* * *

Three days before their first exam, Professor McGonagall made another announcement at breakfast. “I have good news,” she said, and the Great Hall, instead of falling silent, erupted.

“Dumbledore's coming back!” several people yelled joyfully. 

“You've caught the Heir of Slytherin!” squealed a girl at the Ravenclaw table. 

“Quidditch matches are back on!” roared Wood excitedly. 

“My theatre club is back on again!” Cedric stood up. 

When the hubbub had subsided, Professor McGonagall said, “Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who have been petrified. I need hardly remind you all that one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with our catching the culprit.”

There was an explosion of cheering. Draco looked pleased. “We won’t have to go to that bathroom, in that case. Michael will tell us all about it.”

Just then, Ginny Weasley appeared at the Slytherin table. She stopped behind Harry, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. 

“What are you doing here, Weasley?” Draco snarled. “Came hoping to finally get Harry’s unrequited love?” he howled. 

Harry elbowed him hard. “Hello, Ginny.”

Ginny looked at Draco with wide eyes, and then looked back to Harry. 

Harry stood up, and walked with her to the side of the hall. He figured she wouldn’t want Draco to hear what she had to say. 

“H- Harry… I- I’ve got to tell you something.”

“What is it?” Harry said gently. He didn’t want to seem like a big, scary Slytherin. Even if he was friends with Draco Malfoy. 

Ginny opened her mouth, but no sound came out. 

Harry leaned forward and spoke quietly, so that only Ginny could hear him. “Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have you seen something? Someone acting oddly?” 

Ginny drew a deep breath and, at that precise moment, Percy Weasley appeared, looking tired and wan. “Leave Potter alone, Ginny…” he said. “Come and have breakfast. You haven’t had a proper meal in ages… you realize you need to eat, fearing the heir of Slytherin will do you no good. You’ll need your strength for exams,” he took her arm and pulled her back towards the Gryffindor table. She looked back at Harry nervously, but said nothing. 

Harry could feel Percy’s resentment towards him. He didn’t know why he had hated him so much… 

He went back to sit next to Draco, who was sneering. “What did she say?” 

“Nothing,” Harry shot a glance back at Percy. 

“What a shame, could’ve got yourself a girlfriend…”

Harry ate his breakfast slowly, not wanting to reply. 


	13. The Chamber of Secrets

Harry knew the whole mystery might be solved tomorrow without their help, but he wasn't about to pass up a chance to speak to Myrtle if it turned up... and to his delight it did, midmorning, when they were being led to History of Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart. Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all danger had passed, only to be proved wrong right away, was now wholeheartedly convinced that it was hardly worth the trouble to see them safely down the corridors. His hair wasn't as sleek as usual; it seemed he had been up most of the night, patrolling the fourth floor. 

“Mark my words,” he said, ushering them around a corner. “The first words out of those poor petrified people's mouths will be “It was Hagrid.” Frankly, I'm astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these security measures are necessary.”

“I agree, sir,” said Harry, making Ron, who was behind him and Draco, drop his books in surprise. 

“Thank you, Harry,” said Lockhart graciously while they waited for a long line of Hufflepuffs to pass. “I mean, we teachers have quite enough to be getting on with, without walking students to classes and standing guard all night…” 

“That's right,” said Draco, catching on. “Why don't you leave us here, sir, we've only got one more corridor to go.” 

“You know, Mr. Malfoy, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I really should go and prepare my next class!”

And he hurried off. 

“Prepare his next class,” Draco sneered. “Bet he’s off to curl his hair.”

They let the rest of the class draw ahead of them, Ron looking back briefly but also disappearing with the rest, then darted down a side passage and hurried off toward Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. 

But just as they were sniggering about their brilliant scheme… 

“Potter! Malfoy! What are you doing?” It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. 

“We were- we were-” Harry stammered. “We were going to- to go and see-” 

“Michael,” said Draco. 

Harry and Professor McGonagall both looked at him.

“We haven't seen him for ages, Professor,” Draco drawled sadly, “and we thought we'd sneak into the hospital wing and tell him the Mandrakes are nearly ready and… maybe read him a book to prepare him for the exam. You see, I wasn’t the best of friends to him and Harry this year… And I can’t help but feel guilty…” 

Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. 

“Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends of those who have been... I quite understand. Yes, Malfoy, of course you may visit Mr. Munroe. I will inform Professor Binns where you've gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given my permission.” 

Harry and Draco walked away, hardly daring to believe that they'd avoided detention. 

As they turned the corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall blow her nose.

“That was brilliant acting…” Harry breathed. 

“Thanks,” Draco grinned. “Though we have to go to the Hospital Wing now, to avoid suspicion.”

Harry nodded, “We’ll stay for a few minutes and then we’ll make our way to the bathroom.” 

Madam Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly. 

“There's just no point talking to a petrified person,” she said, and they had to admit she had a point when they'd taken their seats next to Michael. 

It was plain that Michael didn't have the faintest inkling that he had visitors, and that they might just as well tell his bedside cabinet not to worry for all the good it would do.

“Do you really think Muggle-borns are so bad?” Harry said. “I mean it’s not like they’re Muggles. They do have magic in their blood…”

“They’re not like us, Harry. They grew up with Muggles and might as well be like them.”

“I grew up with Muggles,” Harry suddenly said. “What makes my blood more special than theirs?”

“You don’t get it, do you. If you mix blood with water, it’s going to thin out. And if you keep adding water to it, it’s going to become so weak that it might as well just be water. Same thing with wizarding blood. They might as well let house elves into Hogwarts for all I know.” 

Harry didn’t want to argue. Not like he knew much about how wizard blood even worked. 

He glanced over at Hermione. From everything he knew about her, she was brilliant. She was the best witch in their year. So Draco’s logic made no sense. 

He was about to say so until he saw something. There was something in her hand. 

He elbowed Draco and nodded, “look…”

“What?” 

Harry stood up and walked over to Hermione. He tried to get the piece of parchment from her stone-like hand, but it wasn’t moving. He tugged a little harder, until eventually it came free. 

It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harry smoothed it out eagerly and Draco strolled over, leaning closer to read it, too. 

“Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.” 

And beneath this, a single word had been written by hand. 

“Pipes.”

It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on in his brain. 

“Draco,” he breathed. “This is it. This is the answer. The monster in the Chamber's a basilisk… a giant serpent! That why I've been hearing that voice all over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It's because I understand Parseltongue…”

Harry looked up at the beds around him. “The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no one's died... because no one looked it straight in the eye. Colin saw it through his camera. The basilisk burned up all the film inside it, but Colin just got petrified. Justin... Justin must've seen the basilisk through Nearly Headless Nick! Nick got the full blast of it, but he couldn't die again... and Michael and Hermione were found with a mirror next to them. Hermione had just realized the monster was a basilisk. I bet you anything she bumped into Michael in the corridor and told him what she knew, and then they looked around corners with a mirror!” 

“And Filch’s cat?” Draco asked.

Harry thought hard, picturing the scene on the night of Halloween. 

“The water…” he said slowly. “The flood from Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. I bet you Mrs. Norris only saw the reflection…” He scanned the page in his hand eagerly. The more he looked at it, the more it made sense.

“It also makes sense why those spiders were behaving weirdly…”

“And why Hagrid kept finding dead roosters.” 

“But how would a great big serpent make its way around the school unseen?” Draco wondered. 

“Pipes…” Harry said almost automatically. 

“Pipes?” 

Harry pointed at the word Hermione must’ve written. “It makes sense why I would hear those voices coming from the wall before an attack.” he paused. “The bathroom…”

“The bathroom?” Draco sighed. “Come on, we’ve found out all we needed to know…” 

“No… the entrance to the Chamber,” Harry whispered. “Its first attack was Mrs. Norris who was found outside the bathroom. Myrtle was also the first and only victim of the Basilisk fifty years ago… she must’ve seen where it came from… 

“This means,” said Harry, “I can't be the only Parselmouth in the school. The Heir of Slytherin's one, too. That's how he's been controlling the basilisk.” 

“What're we going to do?” said Draco. “Should we go straight to Professor Snape? He knew about the walls somehow. He’d believe us.” 

“Let's go to the staff room,” said Harry, jumping up. 

They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered hanging around in another corridor, they went straight into the deserted staff room. It was a large, paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs. Harry and Draco paced around it, Draco was picking up interesting items and looking at them. Neither of them could stand still. 

But the bell to signal break never came. Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor McGonagall's voice, magically magnified. “All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.” 

Harry wheeled around to stare at Draco. “Not another attack? Not now?”

“We have to go back to our dormitory,” Draco said nervously. 

Harry spotted an ugly sort of wardrobe to his left, full of the teachers' cloaks. “In here.”

“Have you gone mad, we’re going to get exp-” Draco didn’t have much time to protest. Harry dragged him to the wardrobe, got inside and closed it briskly. 

From between the musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers filtering into the room. Some of them were looking puzzled, others downright scared. 

Then Professor McGonagall arrived. “It has happened,” she told the silent staff room. “A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.” 

Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout clapped her hands over her mouth. 

Snape gripped the back of a chair very hard and said, “How can you be sure?” 

“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall, who was very white, “left another message. Right underneath the first one. “Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.”” 

Professor Flitwick burst into tears.

“Who is it?” said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-kneed, into a chair. “Which student?” “Ginny Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall.

Harry clasped his hand to his mouth, trying to stop any noise coming out. 

“We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow,” said Professor McGonagall. “This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said…”

The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild moment, Harry was sure it would be Dumbledore. But it was Lockhart, and he was beaming. “So sorry... dozed off... what have I missed?”

He didn't seem to notice that the other teachers were looking at him with something remarkably like hatred. Snape stepped forward. 

“Just the man,” he said. “The very man. A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last.” 

Lockhart blanched. 

“That's right, Gilderoy,” chipped in Professor Sprout. “Weren't you saying just last night that you've known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?” 

“I- well, I-” sputtered Lockhart. 

“Yes, didn't you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?” piped up Professor Flitwick. 

“D- did I? I don't recall-”

“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn't had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested,” said Snape. “Didn't you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given a free rein from the first?” 

Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues. “I- I really never- you may have misunderstood-” 

“We'll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We'll make sure everyone's out of your way. You'll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last.” 

Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody came to the rescue. He didn't look remotely handsome anymore. His lip was trembling, and in the absence of his usually toothy grin, he looked weak-chinned and feeble. 

“V- very well,” he said. “I'll- I'll be in my office, getting getting ready.” 

And he left the room.

“Right,” said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils were flared, “that's got him out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories.” 

The teachers rose and left, one by one.

* * *

It was probably the worst day of Harry's entire life. He and Draco sat together in a corner of the Slytherin common room, unable to say anything to each other. No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had the dungeons ever been so crowded, yet so quiet. 

Near sunset, the last of the remaining Slytherins made their way up to their dormitories. 

“She knew something,” said Harry, speaking for the first time since they had entered the wardrobe in the staff room. “That's why she was taken. She'd found out something about the Chamber of Secrets. That must be why she was…” 

“She’s still a pure-blood,” Draco said. “It must’ve been that. Michael had been attacked because he and Granger were onto the Basilisk. Weasley most likely knew something important.” 

Harry could see the glow of the lake soften and fade. This was the worst he had ever felt. If only there was something they could do. Anything. 

“Maybe… she’s still alive,” Harry muttered. “Maybe there’s still hope.” 

Though he doubted that, it was hard to believe that she would still be alive. Why wouldn’t the heir of Slytherin finish her off?

“D’you think we should go see Lockhart?” Draco asked suddenly, to Harry’s surprise. “If he’s preparing to go down the Chamber, we should tell him everything we know.” 

Because Harry couldn't think of anything else to do, and because he wanted to be doing something, he agreed. Nobody was there to stop them as they got up, crossed the room, and left through the door. 

Darkness was falling as they walked up out of the dungeons. 

On their way up the stairs they saw Ron, whom just snuck out of the Gryffindor portrait hole. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, as Ron hurried over. 

“They got Ginny… the heir of Slytherin got Ginny…” he was almost at the edge of tears. 

“We’re going to Lockhart’s office to tell him what we know. Hopefully she’s still alive.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ron said quickly. 

“No you’re not,” Draco frowned. “Go back to your common room, Weasley…”

“Draco,” Harry muttered. “We could use an extra wand…” 

“Even when it’s hanging on by spellotape?” 

Harry lead the way, not wanting to argue. There was no time for that.

The three of them stood outside of Lockhart’s office. 

There seemed to be a lot of activity going on inside it. They could hear scraping, thumps, and hurried footsteps. Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from inside. Then the door opened the tiniest crack and they saw one of Lockhart's eyes peering through it.

“Oh… hello there, boys,” he said, opening the door a bit wider. “I'm rather busy at the moment... if you would be quick…” 

“Professor, we've got some information for you,” said Harry. “We think it'll help you.” 

“Er... well, it's not terribly-” The side of Lockhart's face that they could see looked very uncomfortable. “I mean... well all right…” He opened the door and they entered. 

His office had been almost completely stripped. Two large trunks stood open on the floor. Robes, jade-green, lilac, midnight-blue, had been hastily folded into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into the other. The photographs that had covered the walls were now crammed into boxes on the desk.

“Are you going somewhere?” said Draco. 

“Er, well, yes,” said Lockhart, ripping a life-size poster of himself from the back of the door as he spoke and starting to roll it up. “Urgent call! Unavoidable... got to go-”

“What about my sister?” said Ron jerkily. 

“Well, as to that... most unfortunate…” said Lockhart, avoiding their eyes as he wrenched open a drawer and started emptying the contents into a bag. “No one regrets more than I-” 

“You're the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!” said Harry. “You can't go now! Not with all the Dark stuff going on here!” 

“Well... I must say... when I took the job…” Lockhart muttered, now piling socks on top of his robes. “...nothing in the job description... didn't expect-” 

“You mean you're running away?” enquired Draco. 

“After all that stuff you did in your books?” Harry breathed with disbelief. 

“Books can be misleading, boys,” said Lockhart delicately. 

“You wrote them!” Ron shouted.

“My dear boys,” said Lockhart, straightening up and frowning at Harry. “Do use your common sense. My books wouldn't have sold half as well if people didn't think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did save a village from werewolves. He'd look dreadful on the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch who banished the Bandon Banshee had a harelip. I mean, come on…” 

“So you've just been taking credit for what a load of other people have done?” said Harry incredulously.

“Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, shaking his head impatiently, “it's not nearly as simple as that. There was work involved. I had to track these people down. Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so they wouldn't remember doing it. If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's my Memory Charms. No, it's been a lot of work, Harry. It's not all book signings and publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you have to be prepared for a long hard slog.” He banged the lids of his trunks shut and locked them. “Let's see,” he said. “I think that's everything. Yes. Only one thing left.”

He pulled out his wand and turned to them. 

“Awfully sorry, boys, but I'll have to put a Memory Charm on you now. Can't have you blabbing my secrets all over the place. I’d never sell another book.” 

Harry reached his wand just in time. 

Lockhart had barely raised his, when Harry bellowed, “Expelliarmus!” 

Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over his trunk; his wand flew high into the air; Ron caught it, and flung it out of the open window.

“Shouldn't have let Professor Snape teach us that one,” said Harry, as him and Draco smirked at each other, before kicking Lockhart's trunk aside. 

Lockhart was looking up at him, feeble once more. Harry was still pointing his wand at him. 

“What d'you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I don't know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There's nothing I can do.” 

“You're in luck,” said Harry, forcing Lockhart to his feet at wand-point. “We think we know where it is. And what's inside it. Let's go.” 

They marched Lockhart out of his office and down the nearest stairs, along the dark corridor where the messages shone on the wall, to the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. 

They sent Lockhart in first. Harry was pleased to see that he was shaking. 

Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end toilet. 

“Oh, it's you,” she said when she saw Harry. “What do you want this time?”

Draco stared at her with disgust. “You’re hi-” Harry elbowed him just in time, before he could say whatever it was that he wanted to say. 

Ron must’ve thought the same as Draco, but he didn’t let it on quite as obviously. 

“We want to ask you how you died,” said Harry. 

Myrtle's whole aspect changed at once. She looked as though she had never been asked such a flattering question. 

“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then-” Myrtle swelled importantly, her face shining. “I died.”

“How?” said Harry. 

“No idea,” said Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…” 

She looked dreamily at Harry. “And then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glasses.” 

“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harry.

“Somewhere there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely toward the sink in front of her toilet. 

Harry and Draco hurried over to it. Lockhart was standing well back, a look of utter terror on his face, as Ron pointed his broken wand at him. 

It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below. 

And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake. 

“That tap's never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he tried to turn it. 

“Harry,” said Draco. “Say something. Something in Parseltongue.” 

“But-” Harry thought hard. 

The only times he'd ever managed to speak Parseltongue were when he'd been faced with a real snake. 

He stared hard at the tiny engraving, trying to imagine it was real. 

“Open up,” he said. 

He looked at Draco, who shook his head. “English,” he said. 

Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to believe it was alive. If he moved his head, the candlelight made it look as though it were moving. 

“Open up,” he said.

Except that the words weren't what he heard; a strange hissing had escaped him, and at once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. 

Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into. 

Harry heard Ron gasp from behind them, and looked up again. He had made up his mind what he was going to do.

“I'm going down there,” he said. 

He couldn't not go, not now they had found the entrance to the Chamber, not if there was even the faintest, slimmest, wildest chance that Ginny might be alive. 

“Me too,” said Ron. 

There was a pause. 

“F- fine… I’ll go, I suppose,” Draco huffed. 

“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart, with a shadow of his old smile. “I'll just-”

He put his hand on the doorknob, but all three of them pointed their wands at him.

“You can go first,” Draco sneered. 

White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the opening. 

“Boys,” he said, his voice feeble. “Boys, what good will it do?” 

Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand. Lockhart slid his legs into the pipe. 

“I really don't think-” he started to say, but Draco kicked him, and he slid out of sight. 

Harry followed quickly. He lowered himself slowly into the pipe, then let go.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew that he was falling deeper below the school than even the dungeons. 

Behind him he could hear Ron, thudding slightly at the curves, and Draco screaming loudly. 

And then, just as he had begun to worry about what would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in. 

Lockhart was getting to his feet a little ways away, covered in slime and white as a ghost. Harry stood aside as Ron came whizzing out of the pipe, followed by Draco. 

“That’s disgusting… ugh…” Draco complained sourly, covered in slime. 

“Don’t be such a girl,” Ron teased. 

“Shut up, Weasley…” 

“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, ignoring their squabbles, his voice echoing in the black tunnel. 

“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting around at the dark, slimy walls. 

All four of them turned to stare into the darkness ahead.

“Lumos!” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. “C'mon,” he said to Draco, Ron and Lockhart, and off they went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor. The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls looked monstrous in the wandlight.

“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked cautiously forward, “any sign of movement, close your eyes right away…”

But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first unexpected sound they heard was a loud crunch as Ron stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull. 

Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw that it was littered with small animal bones. 

Trying very hard not to imagine what Ginny might look like if they found her, Harry led the way forward, around a dark bend in the tunnel.

“Harry… there’s something up there...” said Ron hoarsely, grabbing Harry’s shoulder.

They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline of something huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn’t moving.

“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the other three. 

Lockhart’s hands were pressed over his eyes. Harry turned back to look at the thing, his heart beating so fast it hurt.

Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make them and still see, Harry edged forward, his wand held high.

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have been twenty feet long at least.

“Oh god…” Draco moaned, “make Lockhart walk in front!”

There was a sudden movement behind them. 

Gilderoy Lockhart’s knees had given way.

“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at Lockhart.

Lockhart got to his feet… then he dived at Ron, knocking him to the ground.

They wrestled, but it was short-lived. Draco dove towards them, as Ron’s wand snapped in half and went flying into the darkness. 

“It’ll be impossible to find it now!” Ron kicked Lockhart. 

Lockhart grabbed onto Draco’s robes, dragging him down, pulling his wand from his grip. 

Then, he stood up sharply and pointed Draco’s wand at them. 

Draco’s face was contorted in panic. 

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body… say goodbye to your memories!”

Just as Lockhart raised his wand, and shouted, “Obliviate!” Harry swung his arm forward and, just in time, yelled “Protego!” 

The charm backfired. 

It send Lockhart flying into the wall with a bang. 

Harry flung his arms over his head and ran, followed by Draco, slipping over the coils of snake skin, out of the way of great chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the floor. 

Next moment, the two of them stood, separated from the others, gazing at a solid wall of broken rock.

“Ron!” he shouted. “Are you okay? Ron!”

“I’m here!” came Ron’s muffled voice from behind the rockfall. “I’m okay… this git’s not, though… I can’t find my wand! Thanks a lot...”

There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” 

It sounded as though Ron had just kicked Lockhart in the shins.

“What now?” Ron’s voice said, sounding desperate. “We can’t get through… it’ll take ages…”

Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks had appeared in it. He had never tried to break apart anything as large as these rocks by magic, and now didn’t seem a good moment to try… what if the whole tunnel caved in?

Draco yelled, “give him another good kick for me!” 

There was another thud and another “ow!” from behind the rocks. 

They were wasting time. Ginny had already been in the Chamber of Secrets for hours… Harry knew there was only one thing to do.

“Wait there,” he called to Ron. “Wait with Lockhart. We’ll go on… If we’re not back in an hour…”

There was a very pregnant pause.

“I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ron, who seemed to be trying to keep his voice steady. “So you can both get through…”

“See you in a bit,” said Harry, trying to inject some confidence into his shaking voice.

And the two of them set off past the giant snake skin.

“He took my wand, Harry… I haven’t got my wand…” he stuttered. 

“It’s fine, just keep close,” Harry said, “I’ll keep mine at the ready…” 

Draco pulled out Michael’s silver knife from his robes, holding that instead, as if it’d be any help against an enormous snake. 

The tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Harry’s body was tingling unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet dreaded what they’d find when it did. They walked in silence, their ears pierced. 

And then, at last, as they crept around yet another bend, they saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

Harry approached, his throat very dry. There was no need to pretend these stone snakes were real; their eyes looked strangely alive.

He could guess what he had to do. He cleared his throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker.

“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.

Draco watched in awe, as the serpents parted and the wall cracked open; the halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harry and Draco, shaking from head to foot, walked inside.


	14. The Heir of Slytherin

They were standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. 

Whilst Draco looked around nervously, Harry stood listening to the chill silence. Could the basilisk be lurking in a shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was Ginny?

Holding his wand, he moved forward between the serpentine columns. Draco couldn’t follow, he couldn’t sum up the courage to move forward with him, so he stayed behind at the door. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. Harry kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following him. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

As Harry drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkey like, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black robed figure with flaming red hair.

“Ginny!” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and dropping to his knees. “Ginny… don’t be dead… please don’t be dead...”

He flung his wand aside, grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn’t petrified. But then she must be-

Draco watched, taking a few steps forward. As he approached a pillar, from which he could clearly see Harry and Ginny.

“Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny’s head lolled hopelessly from side to side. “Draco, I think she’s… I think she’s…” he looked back to see his friend cowering behind one of the pillars, staring blankly at something. 

“She won’t wake,” said a soft voice.

Harry jumped and spun around on his knees. 

A tall, black haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry were looking at him through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him.

“Tom- Tom Riddle?”

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face.

“What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said desperately. “She’s not- she’s not-?”

“She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.”

Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird, misty light shining about him, not a day older than sixteen.

“Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly.

“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.”

He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For a second, Harry wondered how it had got there… but there were more pressing matters to deal with.

“You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here. There’s a basilisk… I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment… Please, help me.”

Riddle didn’t move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist Ginny half off the floor, and bent to pick up his wand again.

But his wand had gone.

“Did you see-?”

He looked up. Riddle was still watching him, twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers.

“Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.

A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly.

“Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go! If the basilisk comes-”

“It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly.

Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to hold her up any longer.

“What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, I might need it...”

Riddle’s smile broadened.

“You won’t be needing it,” he said.

Harry stared at him.

“What d’you mean, I won’t be...?”

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.”

“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later-”

“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand.

Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here.

“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.

“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle pleasantly. “And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger.”

“What are you talking about?” said Harry.

“The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes… how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how...” Riddle’s eyes glinted “how she didn’t think famous, good, great Harry Potter from Slytherin would ever like her…”

All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s face. There was an almost hungry look in them.

“It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven year old girl,” he went on. “But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever understood me like you, Tom… I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to confide in… It’s like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket…”

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry’s neck.

“If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted… I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her…”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had gone very dry.

“Haven’t you guessed yet, Harry Potter?” said Riddle softly. “Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on three Mudbloods, your stupid meddling friend, and the Squib’s cat.

“No,” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” said Riddle, calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries… far more interesting, they became… Dear Tom,” he recited, watching Harry’s horrified face, “I think I’m losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me… There was another attack today and I don’t know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m going mad… I think I’m the one attacking everyone, Tom!”

Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms.

“It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary,” said Riddle. “But she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And that’s where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I couldn’t have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet…”

“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry. Anger was coursing through him, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady.

“Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,” said Riddle. “Your whole fascinating history.” His eyes roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead, and their expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust...”

“Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now shaking. “And you framed him, didn’t you? I thought you made a mistake, but-”

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student… on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls… but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked. I thought someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance… as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!

“Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed… Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did…”

“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said Harry, his teeth gritted.

“Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled,” said Riddle carelessly. “I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste those long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen year old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.”

“Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry triumphantly. “No one’s died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be ready and everyone who was petrified will be alright again...”

“Haven’t I already told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has been… you.”

Harry stared at him.

“Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I told you who’d been strangling roosters? So the foolish little brat waited until your locker room was deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin’s heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery… particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue…

“So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn’t much life left in her… She put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last… I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter.”

“Like what?” Harry spat, fists still clenched.

“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that you a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent… managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?” There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.

“Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly. “Voldemort was after your time…”

“Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present, and future, Harry Potter…”

He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

“TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE”

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged themselves:

“I AM LORD VOLDEMORT”

“You see?” he whispered. “It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry… I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so many others… At last he forced himself to speak.

“You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.

“Not what?” snapped Riddle.

“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re hiding these days-” 

The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.

“Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!” he hissed.

“He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true.

“Oh, Harry… Harry…” Riddle gave out the faintest of laughs. “Dumbledore won’t be coming to save you this time. That’s why I want to propose to you. Join me, Harry, and you’ll be so much more powerful than you could possibly imagine. You can have anything you ever wanted. A powerful, fearless, Pure-blood Slytherin, don’t you crave power? Glory? I was just like you, Harry. Dead parents, rotten Muggle orphanage, completely alone and a nobody. Look at me now, Harry… It’s not too late for you to change your mind…”

“No thanks,” Harry hissed, “I have friends, I’m not alone like you are. I have everything I need and want already!”

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spine tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and gleaming golden talons.

A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden beak and a beady black eye.

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry’s cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.

“That’s a phoenix,” said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.

“Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles were laughing at once.

“This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?”

Harry didn’t answer. He might not see what use Fawkes was, but he was no longer alone, and he waited for Riddle to stop laughing with his courage mounting.

“To business, Harry,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly. “Your courage and defiance outstands me! Twice… in your past, in my future… we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he added softly, “the longer you stay alive.”

Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. 

Riddle had the wand. 

Harry had Fawkes. He didn’t think the bird would be useful in a duel. 

It looked bad, all right… but the longer Riddle stood there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny… and in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle’s outline was becoming clearer, more solid… If it had to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner than later.

“No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me,” said Harry abruptly. “I don’t know myself. But I know why you couldn’t kill me. Because my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born mother,” he added, shaking with suppressed rage. “She stopped you killing me. And I’ve seen the real you, I saw you last year. You’re a wreck. You’re barely alive. That’s where all your power got you. You’re in hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul-”

Riddle’s face contorted. Then he forced it into an awful smile. “So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a powerful counter charm. I can see now… there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both Slytherin, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike… But after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That’s all I wanted to know.”

Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his wand. But Riddle’s twisted smile was widening again.

“Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson. Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and the best weapon Dumbledore can give him…”

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes, then walked away. 

Harry, fear spreading up his numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half darkness. He glanced back desperately, but he couldn’t see Draco. 

Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed… but Harry understood what he was saying…

“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on his shoulder.

Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.

And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths.

Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber wall, and as he shut his eyes tight he felt Fawkes’ wing sweep his cheek as he took flight. Harry wanted to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but what chance did a phoenix have against the king of serpents?

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harry felt it shudder… he knew what was happening, he could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth. Then he heard Riddle’s hissing voice:

“Kill him.”

The basilisk was moving toward Harry; he could hear its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry began to run blindly sideways, his hands outstretched, feeling his way… Voldemort was laughing…

Harry heard Draco from behind the pillar give a huge, loud scream. He kept his eyes shut and sank to a crouch. Luckily for him, the serpent didn’t even acknowledge him. Harry was it’s target. 

“Draco! Run!” Harry yelled, and tripped. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted blood the serpent was barely feet from him, he could hear it coming.

Draco couldn’t move a muscle. Riddle was laughing. “Is this the type of friends you got, Potter?” 

There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above him, and then something heavy hit Harry so hard that he was smashed into the wall. 

Waiting for fangs to sink through his body he heard more mad hissing, something thrashing wildly off the pillars.

He couldn’t help it… he opened his eyes wide enough to squint at what was going on.

The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his eyes if it turned, he saw what had distracted the snake.

Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and thin as sabers.

Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned… 

Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been punctured by the phoenix; blood was streaming to the floor, and the snake was spitting in agony.

“NO!” Harry heard Riddle screaming. “LEAVE THE BIRD! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM. KILL HIM!”

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood poured from its ruined eyes.

“Help me, help me,” Harry muttered wildly, “someone, please… Draco!”

The snake’s tail whipped across the floor again. Harry ducked. 

“Please… help me…” Harry whispered.

He then heard Draco’s voice. 

“Harry! Catch!” 

Draco had ran from behind the pillar, sprinting across the chamber towards him. He threw Michael’s silver knife. 

It skid across the stone floors, clashing against a few rocks and falling inches away from him. 

Draco was now hiding behind another pillar. 

Harry looked at the dagger, gleaming under the lights of the chamber. He glanced at Tom Riddle. He was too preoccupied with yelling at the Serpent to kill Harry to notice. 

Shuffling forward on the cold, wet, stone, he grabbed the silver dagger. 

“KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. SNIFF! SMELL HIM!”

Harry was on his feet, ready. The basilisk’s head was falling, its body coiling around, hitting pillars as it twisted to face him. He could see the vast, bloody eye sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough to swallow him whole, lined with fangs long as his legs, thin, glittering, venomous…

It lunged blindly. Harry dodged and it hit the Chamber wall. It lunged again, and its forked tongue lashed Harry’s side. He raised the dagger before him.

The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was true… Harry threw his whole weight behind forward and drove the blade to the hilt into the roof of the serpent’s mouth...

But as warm blood drenched Harry’s arms, he felt a searing pain just above his elbow. One long, poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into his arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over sideways and fell, twitching, to the floor.

Harry slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that was spreading poison through his body and wrenched it out of his arm. But he knew it was too late. White hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from the wound. Even as he dropped the fang and watched his own blood soaking his robes, his vision went foggy. The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of dull color.

A patch of scarlet swam past, and Harry heard a soft clatter of claws beside him.

“Fawkes,” said Harry thickly. “You were fantastic, Fawkes…”

“Harry!” Draco yelled from the pillar. “Harry, are you alright!” 

“Draco…” Harry breathed. He couldn’t shout. He didn’t have the strength. 

The blond boy didn’t think; he ran from behind his hiding spot, towards Harry. 

Dropping beside him, he looked at his arm. 

“The venom…” said Harry. “I’m dying…”

“No… You’re already dead, Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above him. 

Draco looked up, face filled with dread. 

“Dead. Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s crying.”

Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus. Thick, pearly tears were trickling down the glossy feathers.

“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to be spinning.

Draco grabbed the silver knife and pointed it at Riddle. “You’ll pay for this…”

Riddle laughed, and with a wave of Harry’s wand, the dagger flew into the air, cluttering somewhere far behind them. 

Draco felt helpless. “Come on, bird… stop crying! Claw Riddle’s eyes out…” 

“Don’t worry... Draco, your time is coming soon. I could be merciful, but for what you did to my pet, you can watch your friend go first…” 

Harry was seeing a bright, distant light. He was sure that this was the end. And like this, he couldn’t even protect Draco. 

“So ends the famous Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s distant voice. “In the Chamber of Secrets, his pathetic friends unable to save him, defeated at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You’ll be back with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry… She bought you twelve years of borrowed time… but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must…”

If this is dying, thought Harry, it’s not so bad.

Even the pain was leaving him…

But was this dying? Instead of going black, the Chamber seemed to be coming back into focus. Harry gave his head a little shake and there was Fawkes, still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly patch of tears was shining all around the wound… except that there was no wound.

Draco noticed too. “It’s healing you…”

“Get away, bird,” said Riddle’s voice suddenly. “Get away from him… I said, get away!”

Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry’s wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet.

“Phoenix tears…” said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry’s arm. “Of course… healing powers… I forgot…”

He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me… Move out of the way,” he pointed his wand at Draco, shouting, “expelliarmus.” 

He blasted Draco ten feet away from them, knocking him unconscious, so it was just Harry and Tom, one on one. 

He pointed the wand at Harry.

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and something fell into Harry’s lap… the diary.

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. 

Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry’s hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then…

He had gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right through it.

Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head was spinning as though he’d just come out of a tornado of the Portkey. 

Slowly, he gathered together his wand and the dagger, and made his way towards Draco. 

Then came a faint moan from the end of the Chamber. 

Ginny was stirring. 

Harry glanced at Draco, before hurrying toward her, as she sat up. Her bemused eyes traveled from Draco, to the huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harry, in his blood soaked robes, then to the diary in his hand. She drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears began to pour down her face.

“Harry… oh, Harry… I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn’t say it in front of Percy… it was me, Harry… but I-I s-swear I d-didn’t mean to… R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over… and… how did you kill that… that thing? W-where’s Riddle? The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the diary-”

“It’s all right,” said Harry, holding up the diary, and showing Ginny the fang hole, “Riddle’s finished. Look! Him and the basilisk. C’mon, Ginny, let’s grab Draco and get out of here...”

“I’m going to be expelled!” Ginny wept as Harry helped her awkwardly to her feet. “I’ve looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now I’ll have to leave and… w-what’ll Mum and Dad say?”

Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the Chamber entrance. 

Harry urged Ginny forward; they lifted up Draco together, stepped over the motionless coils of the dead basilisk, through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel. Harry heard the stone doors close behind them with a soft hiss.

After a few minutes’ progress up the dark tunnel, a distant sound of slowly shifting rock reached Harry’s ears.

“Ron!” Harry yelled. “Ginny’s okay! I’ve got her!”

He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned the next bend to see his eager face staring through the sizable gap he had managed to make in the rock fall.

“Ginny!” Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the rock to pull her through first. “You’re alive! I don’t believe it! What happened?”

“Later,” Harry said. “Take Draco first… he’s unconscious…” he and Ginny struggled to get him through the gap. Ron gingerly accepted him on the other side, like he didn’t want to touch him. 

“How… what… where did that bird come from?” He held his arms out for his sister. 

Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Ginny.

“He’s Dumbledore’s,” said Harry, squeezing through himself.

“How come you’ve got a knife?” said Ron, gaping at the glittering weapon in Harry’s hand.

“I’ll explain when we get out of here,” said Harry with a sideways glance at Ginny, who was crying harder than ever.

“But-”

“Later,” Harry said shortly. He didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Ron yet who’d been opening the Chamber, not in front of Ginny, anyway. 

“Where’s Lockhart?”

“Back there,” said Ron, still looking puzzled but jerking his head up the tunnel toward the pipe. “He’s in a bad way. Come and see.”

Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a soft golden glow in the darkness, they walked all the way back to the mouth of the pipe. Gilderoy Lockhart was sitting there, humming placidly to himself.

“His memory’s gone,” said Ron. “Your spell made his memory charm backfire. Hasn’t got a clue who he is, or where he is, or who we are. I told him to come and wait here. He’s a danger to himself.”

Lockhart peered good naturedly up at them all.

“Hello,” he said. “Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do you live here?”

“No,” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

Draco began to stir. A few seconds later, he was gasping and shuffling backwards into the wall. “He’s… he’s going to kill me- he’s going to kill me-”

Harry and Ron stared at him. 

Ginny paused in her sobs, and several seconds later resumed crying again. 

“What happened…” Draco frowned. “How did we get back here?”

“Later…” Harry sighed, leaning down to take a good look at the pipes. “Riddle is dead now, we just need to find our way back out… but how...” 

Draco got up quickly, “where’s my wand?”

“Here,” Ron handed it over to him. 

“Thanks,” Draco hissed, like he didn’t really mean it. He wiped it off the clean inside of his robes. 

Suddenly, Fawkes the phoenix had swooped past Harry and was now fluttering in front of him, his beady eyes bright in the dark. He was waving his long golden tail feathers. Harry looked uncertainly at him.

“He looks like he wants you to grab hold…” said Ron, looking perplexed. “But you’re much too heavy for a bird to pull up there...”

“Fawkes,” said Harry, “isn’t an ordinary bird.” He turned quickly to the others. “We’ve got to hold on to each other. Ginny, grab Ron’s hand. Draco, grab Ginny’s other hand…” 

Draco looked at Ginny like she was covered in slime.

“Professor Lockhart-”

“He means you,” said Ron sharply to Lockhart.

“You hold Ron’s hand...”

Harry tucked the dagger into his belt, Draco took hold of the back of Harry’s robes, and Harry reached out and took hold of Fawkes’s strangely hot tail feathers.

An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through his whole body and the next second, in a rush of wings, they were flying upward through the pipe. 

Harry could hear Lockhart dangling somewhere below him, saying, “Amazing! Amazing! This is just like magic!” 

The chill air was whipping through Harry’s hair, and before he’d stopped enjoying the ride, it was over… all four of them were hitting the wet floor of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and as Lockhart straightened his hat, the sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into place.

Myrtle goggled at them.

“You’re alive,” she said blankly to Harry.

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” he said grimly, wiping flecks of blood and slime off his glasses.

“Oh, well… I’d just been thinking… if you had died, you’d have been welcome to share my toilet,” said Myrtle, blushing silver.

Draco felt like he was going to vomit. 

Even Ron looked disgusted. “Harry... I think this ghost likes you. You’ve got competition, Ginny...”

But tears were still flooding silently down Ginny’s face.

“Where now?” said Draco, as Ron looked anxiously at Ginny. 

Harry pointed.

Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the corridor. 

They strode after him, and moments later, found themselves outside Professor McGonagall’s office.

Harry knocked and pushed the door open.


	15. Lucius Malfoy

For a moment there was silence as Harry, Draco, Ron, Ginny, and Lockhart stood in the doorway, covered in muck and slime and (in Harry’s case) blood. Then there was a scream.

“Ginny!”

It was Mrs. Weasley, who had been sitting crying in front of the fire. She leapt to her feet, closely followed by Mr. Weasley, and both of them flung themselves on their daughter.

Harry, however, was looking past them. 

Professor Dumbledore was standing by the mantelpiece, beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who was taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest. 

Fawkes went whooshing past Harry’s ear and settled on Dumbledore’s shoulder, just as Harry found himself and Ron being swept into Mrs. Weasley’s tight embrace.

“You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?”

“I think we’d all like to know that,” said Professor McGonagall weakly.

Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry, and hesitated for a moment. She looked at Draco, with real surprise on her face. “You… you went down there and helped save my-”

“Yes,” Draco said. “And no, I don’t want a hug, thanks…” 

Harry walked over to the desk and laid upon it what remained of Riddle’s diary.

Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a quarter of an hour he spoke into the rapt silence: He told them about hearing the disembodied voice, how Hermione had finally realized that it was a Basilisk; how he and Draco had followed the spiders into the forest, that Aragog had told them where the last victim of the basilisk had died; how he had guessed that Moaning Myrtle had been the victim, and that the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets might be in her bathroom…” 

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall prompted him as he paused, “so you found out where the entrance was… breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along the way, I might add… but how on earth did you all get out of there alive, Potter?”

So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this talking, told them about Fawkes’s timely arrival and about how Draco threw Michael’s silver dagger towards him. But then he faltered. He had so far avoided mentioning Riddle’s diary… or Ginny. She was standing with her head against Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder, and tears were still coursing silently down her cheeks. 

What if they expelled her? Harry thought in panic. Riddle’s diary didn’t work anymore… How could they prove it had been he who’d made her do it all?

Instinctively, Harry looked at Dumbledore, who smiled faintly, the firelight glancing off his half moon spectacles.

“What interests me most,” said Dumbledore gently, “is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny, when my sources tell me he is currently in hiding in the forests of Albania.”

Relief swept over Harry. 

“W-what’s that?” said Mr. Weasley in a stunned voice. “You-Know-Who? En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny’s not… Ginny hasn’t been… has she?”

“It was this diary,” said Harry quickly, picking it up and showing it to Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when he was sixteen…”

Dumbledore took the diary from Harry and peered keenly down his long, crooked nose at its burnt and soggy pages.

“Brilliant,” he said softly. “Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.” He turned around to the Weasleys, who were looking utterly bewildered.

“Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving the school… traveled far and wide… sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome boy who was once Head Boy here.”

“But, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What’s our Ginny got to do with- with... him?”

“His d-diary!” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, and he’s been w-writing back all year...”

“Ginny!” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I taught you anything. What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain? Why didn’t you show the diary to me, or your mother? A suspicious object like that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic!”

“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Ginny. “I found it inside one of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it...”

“Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away,” Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. “This has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.” He strode over to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up,” he added, twinkling kindly down at her. “You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still awake. She’s just giving out Mandrake juice… I daresay the basilisk’s victims will be waking up any moment.”

“So Hermione’s okay!” said Ron brightly.

“And Michael…” Draco started. 

“There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny,” said Dumbledore.

Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out, and Mr. Weasley followed, still looking deeply shaken. He gave a firm nod of gratitude to Draco as he passed. 

“You know, Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore said thoughtfully to Professor McGonagall, “I think all this merits a good feast. Might I ask you to go and alert the kitchens?”

“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also moving to the door. “I’ll leave you to deal with Potter, Malfoy and Weasley, shall I?”

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore.

She left, and the three gazed uncertainly at Dumbledore. 

What exactly had Professor McGonagall meant, deal with them? Surely… surely… they weren’t about to be punished?

“I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,” said Dumbledore to Harry and Ron.

Ron opened his mouth in horror.

“Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words,” Dumbledore went on, smiling. “You three will receive “Special Awards for Services to the School” and… let me see… yes, I think two hundred points each.”

Ron went as brightly pink as Lockhart’s valentine flowers and closed his mouth again.

Draco smiled and nodded at Harry. 

“But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet about his part in this dangerous adventure,” Dumbledore added. “Why so modest, Gilderoy?”

Harry gave a start. He had completely forgotten about Lockhart. He turned and saw that Lockhart was standing in a corner of the room, still wearing his vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed him, Lockhart looked over his shoulder to see who he was talking to.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said quickly, “there was a… um… dilemma back at the chamber… you see… with Professor Lockhart-”

“Am I a professor?” said Lockhart in mild surprise. “Goodness. I expect I was hopeless, was I?”

“He tried to do a Memory Charm with Malfoy’s wand and Harry accidentally repelled it...” Ron explained quietly to Dumbledore.

“Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his long silver mustache quivering. “Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy! Glad to see that your duelling club came in handy, though...”

“Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword...” He pointed at Harry. “He’ll lend you a very nice looking dagger, though.”

“Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the infirmary, too?” Dumbledore said to Ron and Draco. “I’d like a few more words with Harry…”

Lockhart ambled out. Draco cast a curious look back at Dumbledore and Harry as he closed the door. They were out of the room, yet Harry could already hear Ron and Draco quarreling. 

Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.

“Sit down, Harry,” he said, and Harry sat, feeling unaccountably nervous.

“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you,” said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling again. “You must have shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you.”

He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto his knee. Harry grinned awkwardly as Dumbledore watched him.

“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully. “I imagine he was most interested in you…”

Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came tumbling out of his mouth.

“Professor Dumbledore… Riddle said I’m like him. Strange likenesses, he said…”

“Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully at Harry from under his thick silver eyebrows. “And what do you think, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry honestly. “I mean, we’re both Slytherin… and orphans… and had to live with horrible Muggles… and… and Parseltongue…” 

“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly, “because Lord Voldemort… who is the last remaining ancestor of Salazar Slytherin… can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I’m sure…”

“Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?” Harry said, thunderstruck.

“It certainly seems so.”

“But… I… I feel like maybe Tom was right… what if I’m destined to be like him? If I have some of his powers… Professor, I don’t want to…”

“Harry…” Professor Dumbledore begun. “You risked your life last year to stop Voldemort’s return. You risked your life, again, this year, to save an innocent girl. You stood up for Muggle-borns, despite your resentment towards Muggles, whom have hurt you…”

Harry paused. “But… I’m in Slytherin… maybe… maybe I don’t belong-”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore once more. “Being a part of Slytherin means resourcefulness and ambition. Nowhere in the song of the Sorting Hat did it say that you’re destined to become evil. Whilst, yes, many dark wizards have been in Slytherin, it doesn’t need to define you. Your choices define you, Harry. You’re different from Tom Riddle because of the choices you make. He could’ve become a powerful knight against evil. He could have transformed his passion for Dark Arts into protecting people from it. Yet, he chose to go down the path of darkness.”

Harry understood now. He nodded his head. He was different from Riddle. He knew who he was, and what side he was on. Yet he couldn’t help it. There was still a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. What if he was capable of choosing the dark path? 

“One more thing,” Dumbledore smiled gently, “I’d like to ask you about the dagger.” 

Harry pulled out the dagger from his belt, looking at it. “It was a Christmas present. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy sent this to Michael, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, “how curious,” he said. 

“What’s curious?” Harry asked. 

“This very dagger used to belong to Salazar Slytherin himself,” the Headmaster placed his finger to his temple thoughtfully. “It was created the same way as the Sword of Gryffindor. It was made a thousand years ago by goblins, the magical world's most skilled metalworkers. It’s enchanted, Harry. I’m surprised that Lucius would send something so valuable to an eleven year old boy whom was friends with his son.” 

Harry couldn’t wrap his head around it either. 

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in Professor McGonagall’s desk and took out a quill and a bottle of ink.

“Anyhow… What you need right now, Harry, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go down to the feast, while I write to Azkaban… we need our gamekeeper back. And I must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, too,” he added thoughtfully. “We’ll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher… Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don’t we?”

Harry got up and crossed to the door. He had just reached for the handle, however, when the door burst open so violently that it bounced back off the wall.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And cowering behind his legs, heavily wrapped in bandages, was Dobby.

“Good evening, Lucius,” said Dumbledore pleasantly.

Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept into the room. Dobby went scurrying in after him, crouching at the hem of his cloak, a look of abject terror on his face.

The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was attempting to finish cleaning Mr. Malfoy’s shoes. Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out in a great hurry, for not only were his shoes half polished, but his usually sleek hair was disheveled. 

Ignoring the elf bobbing apologetically around his ankles, he fixed his cold eyes upon Dumbledore.

“So!” he said. “You’ve come back. The governors suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to Hogwarts.”

“Well, you see, Lucius,” said Dumbledore, smiling serenely, “the other eleven governors contacted me today. It was something like being caught in a hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and wanted me back here at once. They seemed to think I was the best man for the job after all. Very strange tales they told me, too… Several of them seemed to think that you had threatened to curse their families if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.”

Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes were still slits of fury.

“So… have you stopped the attacks yet?” he sneered. “Have you caught the culprit?”

“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile. “In fact, your son, Draco, was very helpful in the matter.”

“What?” snapped Mr. Malfoy furiously. 

“Draco,” Harry quickly began, “helped me defeat the Basilisk… he was a real hero, Mr. Malfoy… Couldn’t have done it without him, in fact. Your dagger was a big help, too… I bet the Ministry would be pleased to hear how loyal your family is to them.”

For a moment, Harry thought there was a small sneer on Mr. Malfoy’s face. 

“Well…” his voice was once again drawling and calm, “who was the heir?” 

“The same person as last time, Lucius,” said Dumbledore. “But this time, Lord Voldemort was acting through somebody else. By means of this diary.”

He held up the small black book with the large hole through the center, watching Mr. Malfoy closely. Harry, however, was watching Dobby.

The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes fixed meaningfully on Harry, he kept pointing at the diary, then at Mr. Malfoy, and then hitting himself hard on the head with his fist.

“I see…” said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore.

“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still staring Mr. Malfoy straight in the eye. “Because if Harry here and your son, Draco, hadn’t discovered this book, why… Ginny Weasley might have taken all the blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she hadn’t acted of her own free will…”

Mr. Malfoy said nothing. 

“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might have happened then… The Weasleys are one of our most prominent pure blood families. Imagine the effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and… killing Muggle-borns… Very fortunate the diary was discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who knows what the consequences might have been otherwise…”

Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak. “Very fortunate,” he said stiffly.

And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first to the diary, then to Lucius Malfoy, then punching himself in the head.

And Harry suddenly understood. Dobby backed into a corner, now twisting his ears in punishment.

“I suppose that you’re aware of the fact that you’re going to be suspended from your position as a school governor, Lucius, yes?” Dumbledore said quietly. “The ministry cannot overlook your threats against the others, I’m afraid.” 

“I had no choice,” Mr. Malfoy hissed. “ I was hesitant to trust somebody like you with the life of my son, after all of those attacks. I clearly misjudged your character, Albus. I guess we can all breathe out a sigh of relief now that you’re back.” 

Harry could see right through it. He was playing it cool. Dobby was still pointing at his master and slapping his head furiously. 

Lucius Malfoy turned to Harry. “I instructed my son not to associate with you, I was worried about him, you see, after what happened last year. But you both can clearly take care of yourselves…” he slowly glanced at Dumbledore, and then back to Harry. “You and Mr. Munroe are both welcome at the Malfoy Manor any time…” he sneered, “have a good day…” 

With that, he swiftly turned, and followed by his frantic house elf, left through the door. 

“This is another brilliant example of how Slytherin traits could be used for good, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled, his usual twinkle in his eye. “You prevented a ticking time bomb.” 

“Professor Dumbledore…” Harry begun, waiting a couple of seconds until the footsteps of Mr. Malfoy disappeared. “He’s the one who slipped Riddle’s Diary into Ginny’s cauldron in Flourish and Blotts… I’m sure of it…”

“Yes, I suspected so,” Dumbledore began, “but there’s nothing we can do. There’s no proof, the Ministry would dismiss it with a wave of a hand. Lucius is still well regarded, after all. But now that he is no longer governor, makes this school a much safer place to be.”

Harry nodded. He had a burning question on his mind. “Do you think… Draco would become like his father?”

“Remember what I said about choices, Harry,” the old wizard pointed his finger upward. “If he chooses so, he will. But what I’ve seen in the past two years, is that you are a very good influence on him.” 

“I am?” Harry asked, surprised. 

“And I’m proud of both of you,” Professor Dumbledore walked over to Fawks to brush his feathers with his finger again. “Regarding Lucius Malfoy, Harry… Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” 

Harry understood what that meant. Just as Mr. Malfoy offered him a place at his home, to no doubt keep a close watch on him, Harry realized that he’d be wise to do the same. 

“Now, off you go, Harry. Before you miss the feast.” 

Harry nodded, with a big smile, and made his way out of the office quickly. 

He had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas, and the celebration lasted all night. Harry didn’t know whether the best bit was Michael running toward him, jumping into his arms, or Justin hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to wring his hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing Harry and Draco so hard on the shoulders that they were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and Draco’s four hundred points for Slytherin securing the House Cup for the second year running, and Gryffindor coming close second with Ron’s two hundred, or Professor McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the exams had been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!” they heard Hermione from the Gryffindor table), or Dumbledore announcing that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to return next year, owing to the fact that he needed to go away and get his memory back. Quite a few of the teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.

“He was a total idiot… who could have guessed. A baffoon!” Draco announced. 

Cedric was crying in the background. “Poor Gilderoy! Everyone makes mistakes… He was a good friend, an excellent teacher, and a valued mentor to my Theatre Club... this school is going to miss him…”

Michael was hiding his face in his arms, “I’m not related to him, I promise…”

The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal with only a few, small differences; Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were canceled, and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a school governor. Draco thought it was stupid. He kept telling Harry that the Ministry of Magic was run by a bunch of fools. 

Harry didn’t want to ruin Draco’s mood by telling him who was responsible for everything that went on this year. 

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the Hogwarts Express. Harry, Michael, Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, and Bulstrode got a compartment to themselves. They all decided to leave Pansy Parkinson out, saying that both Harry and Draco were the coolest for saving the school. 

They made the most of the last few hours in which they were allowed to do magic before the holidays. They played Exploding Snap, Wizard’s Chess and practiced disarming each other by magic. Harry was getting very good at it.

Just as he was telling Michael how much he would’ve liked Fawkes, Harry caught a glimpse of Ron and Hermione walking past their compartment. 

“Just a minute,” he said to his friends. 

“Why would you want to talk to them?” Draco frowned. 

Harry ignored him. He pulled open the cabin door and caught up with them, almost bumping into the lady with the trolley full of sweets. 

“Ron, Hermione,” he shouted. 

The two of them stopped and looked at him. Hermione beamed. She made her way back towards him. 

“Harry,” she stopped, looking a little awkward. “Uhm… thank you, for everything…”

“It’s you I’ve got to thank,” Harry said. “Without you finding out that the monster was a Basilisk we would have never been able to save Ginny.” 

She looked flustered, “well… I’m glad you don’t think bad of me because I am… well… you know…”

“I think you’re brilliant,” he beamed. 

“In that case,” she suddenly puffed herself up importantly, “you best tell Malfoy and his friends to have a bit more respect…”

Harry nodded. “I will…” 

That’s when Ginny appeared behind Ron. “Thank you, Harry,” she smiled. As soon as she said that, her cheeks went bright red. “You saved my life…” 

Ron nodded. “You’re always welcome at our house, Harry. Just don’t bring Malfoy…”

“Can I bring Michael?” Harry smiled. 

“Sure… Anyway, I’ll see you next year, yeah?”

“See you next year,” Harry waved at Ginny, and smiled at Hermione, before heading back to his cabin. 

Soon enough, they were closing in on Platform 9¾. Harry scribbled down a number on a piece of paper. 

“This is called a telephone number,” he explained to Michael as they left the train. “You can use one of those red boxes in London. I’m sure there would be phone booths where you live too. You can call this number and we can communicate…”

“How come I don’t get one?” Draco enquired. 

“I didn’t think you’d want to use a Muggle telephone,” Harry shrugged. 

“Why can’t I send you an owl?”

“You can… but if Uncle Vernon locks Hedwig up again, don’t expect anything back,” he sighed. 

And together they walked back through the gateway to the Muggle world.

\-- Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban (Slytherin Edition) coming soon --


End file.
